J\r\.  6-6L-6iau  on  tke 

Aristocratic  Radicalism 

FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


GEORGE  BRANDES 


Ar\.  or\.  tke 

Aristocratic  Radicalism 

ot 

FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


GEORGE -BRANDES 

Author  of  “William  Shakespeare,”  etc. 


Translated  from  the  Danish 
By  A.  G.  CHATER 


Printed  in  the  U.  S.  A. 


I 


AN  ESSAY  ON  THE  ARISTOCRATIC  RADICALISM  OF 

FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE  i 
(1889) 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE  appears  to  me  the  most  interesting 
writer  in  German  literature  at  the  present  time.  Though  little 
known  even  in  his  own  country,  he  is  a  thinker  of  a  high  order, 
who  fully  deserves  to  be  studied,  discussed,  contested  and  mastered. 
Among  many  good  qualities  he  has  that  of  imparting  his  mood  to 
others  and  setting  their  thoughts  in  motion. 

During  a  period  of  eighteen  years  Nietzsche  has  written  a  long 
series  of  books  and  pamphlets.  Most  of  these  volumes  consist  of 
aphorisms,  and  of  these  the  greater  part,  as  well  as  the  more  origi¬ 
nal,  are  concerned  with  moral  prejudices.  In  this  province  will  be 
found  his  lasting  importance.  But  besides  this  he  has  dealt  with 
the  most  varied  problems;  he  has  written  on  culture  and  history, 
on  art  and  women,  on  companionship  and  solitude,  on  the  State 
and  society,  on  life’s  struggle  and  death. 

He  was  born  on  October  15,  1844;  studied  philology;  became 
in  1869  professor  of  philology  at  Basle;  made  the  acquaintance 
of  Richard  Wagner  and  became  warmly  attached  to  him,  and  as¬ 
sociated  also  with  the  distinguished  historian  of  the  Renaissance, 
Jakob  Burkhardt.  Nietzsche’s  admiration  and  affection  for  Burk- 
hardt  were  lasting.  His  feeling  for  Wagner,  on  the  other  hand, 
underwent  a  complete  revulsion  in  the  course  of  years.  From  having 
been  Wagner’s  prophet  he  developed  into  his  most  passionate  op¬ 
ponent.  Nietzsche  w^as  always  heart  and  soul  a  musician;  he  even 
tried  his  hand  as  a  composer  in  his  Hymn  to  Life  (for  chorus  and 
orchestra,  1888),  and  his  intercourse  with  Wagner  left  deep  traces 
in  his  earliest  writings.  But  the  opera  of  Parsifal,  with  its  tendency 
to  Catholicism  and  its  advancement  of  the  ascetic  ideals  which  had 
previously  been  entirely  foreign  to  Wagner,  caused  Nietzsche  to 
see  in  the  great  composer  a  danger,  an  enemy,  a  morbid  phenomen¬ 
on,  since  this  last  work  showed  him  all  the  earlier  operas  in  a  new 
light. 

During  his  residence  in  Switzerland  Nietzsche  came  to  know 
a  large  circle  of  interesting  people.  He  suffered,  however,  from  ex¬ 
tremely  severe  headaches,  so  frequent  that  they  incapacitated  him 
for  about  two  hundred  days  in  the  year  and  brought  him  to  the 
verge  of  the  grave.  In  1879  he  resigned  his  professorship.  From 
1882  to  1888  his  state  of  health  improved,  though  extremely  slowly. 
His  eyes  were  still  so  weak  that  he  was  threatened  with  blindness. 
He  was  compelled  to  be  extremely  careful  in  his  mode  of  life  and 


I  “The  expression  ‘aristocratic  radicalism/  which  you  employ,  is  very  ^ood. 
It  is,  permit  me  to  say,  the  cleverest  thing  I  have  yet  read  about  myself.” 

— xMETZSCHE,  Dec.  2,  1887. 


4 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


to  choose  his  place  of  residence  in  obedience  to  climatic  and  meteor¬ 
ological  conditions.  He  usually  spent  the  winter  at  Nice  and  the 
summer  at  Sils-Maria  in  the  Upper  Engadine.  The  years  1887  and 
1888  were  astonishingly  rich  in  production;  they  saw  the  publica¬ 
tion  of  the  most  remarkable  works  of  widely  different  nature  and 
the  preparation  of  a  whole  series  of  new  books.  Then,  at  the  close 
of  the  latter  year,  perhaps  as  the  result  of  overstrain,  a  violent 
attack  of  mental  disorder  occurred,  from  which  Nietzsche  never 
recovered. 

As  a  thinker  his  starting-point  is  Schopenhauer;  in  his  first 
books  he  is  actually  his  disciple.  But,  after  several  years  of  silence, 
during  which  he  passes  through  his  first  intellectual  crisis,  he  re¬ 
appears  emancipated  from  all  ties  of  discipleship.  He  then  under¬ 
goes  so  powerful  and  rapid  a  development — less  in  his  thought  it¬ 
self  than  in  the  courage  to  express  his  thoughts — that  each  succeed¬ 
ing  book  marks  a  fresh  stage,  until  by  degrees  he  concentrates  him¬ 
self  upon  a  single  fundamental  question,  the.  question  of  moral 
values.  On  his  earliest  appearance  as  a  thinker  he  had  already 
entered  a  protest,  in  opposition  to  David  Strauss,  against  any 
moral  interpretation  of  the  nature  of  the  Cosmos  and  assigned  to 
our  morality  its  place  in  the  world  of  phenomena,  now  as  semblance 
or  error,  now  as  artificial  arrangement.  And  his  literary  activity 
reached  its  highest  point  in  an  investigation  of  the  origin  of  the 
moral  concepts,  while  it  was  his  hope  and  intention  to  give  to  the 
world  an  exhaustive  criticism  of  moral  values,  an  examination  of 
the  value  of  these  values  (regarded  as  fixed  once  for  all).  The 
first  book  of  his  work.  The  Transvaluation  of  all  Values,  was  com¬ 
pleted  when  his  malady  declared  itself. 


1 

Nietzsche  first  received  a  good  deal  of  notice,  though  not  much 
commendation,  for  a  caustic  and  juvenile  polemical  pamphlet  against 
David  Strauss,  occasioned  by  the  latter’s  book.  The  Old  Faith  and 
the  New.  His  attack,  irreverent  in  tone,  is  directed  not  against  the 
first,  warlike  section  of  the  book,  but  against  the  constructive  and 
complementary  section.  The  attack,  however,  is  less  concerned  with 
the  once  g.reat  critic’s  last  effort  than  with  the  mediocracy  in 
Germany,  to  which  Strauss’s  last  word  represented  the  last  word 
of  culture  in  general. 

A  year  and  a  half  had  elapsed  since  the  close  of  the  Franco- 
German  War.  Never  had  the  waves  of  German  self-esteem  run  so 
high.  The  exultation  of  victory  had  passed  into  a  tumultuous  self- 
glorification.  The  universal  view  was  that  German  culture  had  van¬ 
quished  French.  Then  this  voice  made  itself  heard,  saying — 

Admitting  that  this  was  really  a  conflict  between  two  civiliza¬ 
tions,  there  would  still  be  no  reason  for  crowning  the  victorious 
one;  we  should  first  have  to  know  what  the  vanquished  one  was 
worth;  if  its  value  was  very  slight — and  this  is  what  is  said  of 
French  culture- — then  there  was  no  great  honor  in  the  victory.  But 
in  the  next  place  there  can  be  no  question  at  all  in  this  case  of  a 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


5 


victory  of  German  culture;  partly  because  French  culture  still 
persists,  and  partly  because  the  Germans,  now  as  heretofore,  are 
dependent  on  it.  It  was  military  discipline,  natural  bravery,  en¬ 
durance,  superiority  on  the  part  of  the  leaders  and  obedience  on 
the  part  of  the  led,  in  short,  factors  that  have  nothing  to  do  with 
culture,  which  gave  Germany  the  victory.  But  finally  and  above 
all,  German  culture  was  not  victorious  for  the  good  reason  that 
Germany  as  yet  has  nothing  that  can  be  called  culture. 

It  was  then  only  a  year  since  Nietzsche  himself  had  formed 
the  greatest  expectations  of  Germany’s  future,  had  looked  forward 
to  her  speedy  liberation  from  the  leading-strings  of  Latin  civiliza¬ 
tion,  and  heard  the  most  favorable  omens  in  German  Music. i  The 
intellectual  decline,  which  seemed  to  him — rightly,  no  doubt — to 
date  indisputably  from  the  foundation  of  the  Empire,  now  made  him 
oppose  a  ruthless  defiance  to  the  prevailing  popular  sentiment. 

He  maintains  that  culture  shows  itself  above  all  else  in  a  unity 
of  artistic  style  running  through  every  expression  of  a  nation’s  life. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  fact  of  having  learnt  much  and  knowing 
much  is,  as  he  points  out,  neither  a  necessary  means  to  culture  nor 
a  sign  of  culture;  it  accords  remarkably  well  with  barbarism,  that  is 
to  say,  with  want  of  style  or  a  motley  hotchpotch  of  styles.  And  his 
contention  is  simply  this,  that  with  a  culture  consisting  of  hotch¬ 
potch  it  is  impossible  to  subdue  any  enemy,  above  all  an  enemy  like 
the  French,  who  have  long  possessed  a  genuine  and  productive  cul¬ 
ture,  whether  we  attribute  a  greater  or  a  lesser  value  to  it. 

He  appeals  to  a  saying  of  Goethe  to  Eckermann;  “We  Germans 
are  of  yesterday.  No  doubt  in  the  last  hundred  years  we  have  been 
cultivating  ourselves  quite  diligently,  but  it  may  take  a  few  centur¬ 
ies  yet  before  our  countrymen  have  absorbed  sufficient  intellect  and 
higher  culture  for  it  to  be  said  of  them  that  it  is  a  long  time  since 
they  were  barbarians.” 

To  Nietzsche,  as  we  see,  the  concepts  of  culture  and  homo¬ 
geneous  culture  are  equivalent.  In  order  to  be  homogeneous  a  cul¬ 
ture  must  have  reached  a  certain  age  and  have  became  strong 
enough  in  its  peculiar  character  to  have  penetrated  all  forms  of 
life.  Homogeneous  culture,  however,  is  of  course  not  the  same  thing 
as  native  culture.  Ancient  Iceland  had  a  homogeneous  culture, 
though  its  flourishing  was  brought  about  precisely  by  active  inter¬ 
course  with  Europe;  a  homogeneous  culture  existed  in  Italy  at 
the  time  of  the  Renaissance,  in  England  in  the  sixteenth,  in  France 
in  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries,  although  Italy  built 
up  her  culture  of  Greek,  Roman  and  Spanish  impressions,  France 
hers  of  classical,  Celtic,  Spanish  and  Italian  elements,  and  although 
the  English  are  the  mixed  race  beyond  all  others.  True,  it  is  only 
a  century  and  a  half  since  the  Germans  began  to  liberate  themselves 
from  French  culture,  and  hardly  more  than  a  hundred  years  since 
they  entirely  escaped  from  the  Frenchmen’s  school,  whose  influence 
may  nevertheless  be  traced  even  today;  but  still  no  one  can  justly 
deny  the  existence  of  a  German  culture,  even  if  it  is  yet  compara¬ 
tively  young  and  in  a  state  of  growth.  Nor  will  anyone  who  has  a 
sense  for  the  agreement  between  German  music  and  German  phil¬ 
osophy,  an  ear  for  the  harmony  between  German  music  and  German 


1  “The  Birth  of  Tragedy,”  p.  150  ff.  (English  edition.) 


6 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


lyrical  poetry,  an  eye  for  the  merits  and  defects  of  German  painting 
and  sculpture,  which  are  the  outcome  of  the  same  fundamental 
tendency  that  is  revealed  in  the  whole  intellectual  and  emotional 
life  of  Germany,  be  disposed  in  advance  to  deny  Germany  a  homo¬ 
geneous  culture.  More  precarious  will  be  the  state  of  such  smaller 
countries  whose  dependence  on  foreign  nations  has  not  unfrequent- 
ly  been  a  dependence  raised  to  the  second  power. 

To  Nietzsche,  however,  this  point  is  of  relatively  small  import¬ 
ance.  He  is  convinced  that  the  last  hour  of  national  cultures  is  at 
hand,  since  the  time  cannot  be  far  off  when  it  will  only  be  a  ques¬ 
tion  of  a  European  or  European-American  culture.  He  argues  from 
the  fact  that  the  most  highly  developed  people  in  every  country 
already  feel  as  Europeans,  as  fellow-countrymen,  nay,  as  confed¬ 
erates,  and  from  the  belief  that  the  twentieth  century  must  bring 
with  it  the  war  for  the  dominion  of  the  world. 

When,  therefore,  from  the  result  of  this  war  a  tempestuous 
wind  sweeps  over  all  national  vanities,  bending  and  breaking  them* 
•what  will  then  be  the  question? 

The  question  will  then  be,  thinks  Nietzsche,  in  exact  agreement 
with  the  most  eminent  Frenchmen  of  our  day,  whether  by  that  time 
it  has  been  possible  to  train  or  rear  a  sort  of  caste  of  pre-eminent 
spirits  who  will  be  able  to  grasp  the  central  power. 

The  real  misfortune  is,  therefore,  not  that  a  country  is  still 
without  a  genuine,  homogeneous  and  perfected  culture,  but  that  It 
thinks  itself  cultured.  And  with  his  eye  upon  Germany  Nietzsche 
asks  how  it  has  come  about  that  so  prodigious  a  contradiction  can 
exist  as  that  between  the  lack  of  true  culture  and  the  self-satisfied 
belief  in  actually  possessing  the  only  true  one — and  he  finds  the 
answer  in  the  circumstance  that  a  class  of  men  has  come  to  the 
front  which  no  former  century  has  known,  and  to  which  (in  1873) 
he  gave  the  name  of  “Culture-Philistines.” 

The  Culture-Philistine  regards  his  own  impersonal  education 
as  the  real  culture;  if  he  has  been  told  that  culture  presupposes  a 
homogeneous  stamp  of  mind,  he  is  confirmed  in  his  good  opinion  of 
himself,  since  everywhere  he  meets  with  educated  people  of  his  own 
sort,  and  since  schools,  universities  and  academies  are  adapted  to 
his  requirements  and  fashioned  on  the  model  corresponding  to  his 
cultivation.  Since  he  finds  almost  everywhere  the  same  tacit  con¬ 
ventions  with  respect  to  religion,  morality  and  literature,  with-  re¬ 
spect  to  marriage,  the  family,  the  community  and  the  State,  he 
considers  it  demonstrated  that  this  imposing  homogeneity  is  culture. 
It  never  enters  his  head  that  this  systematic  and  well-organized 
philistinism,  which  is  set  up  in  all  high  places  and  installed  at 
every  editorial  desk,  is  not  by  any  means  made  culture  just  because 
its  organs  are  in  concert.  It  is  not  even  bad  culture,  says  Nietzsche; 
it  is  barbarism  fortified  to  the  best  of  its  ability,  but  entirely  lack¬ 
ing  the  freshness  and  savage  force  of  original  barbarism;  and  he 
has  many  graphic  expressions  to  describe  Culture-Philistinism  as 
the  morass  in  which  all  weariness  is  stuck  fast,  and  in  the  poisonous 
mists  of  which  all  endeavour  languishes. 

All  of  us  are  now  born  into  the  society  of  cultured  philistin¬ 
ism,  in  it  we  all  grow  up.  It  confronts  us  with  prevailing  opinions, 
which  we  unconsciously  adopt;  and  even  when  opinions  are  divided, 
the  division  is  only  into  party  opinions — public  opinions. 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


7 


An  aphorism  of  Nietzsche’s  reads:  “What  is  public  opinion?  It 
is  private  indolence.”  The  dictum  requires  qualification.  There  are 
cases  where  public  opinion  is  worth  something:  John  Morley  has 
written  a  good  book  on  the  subject.  In  the  face  of  certain  gross 
breaches  of  faith  and  law,  certain  monstrous  violations  of  human 
rights,  public  opinion  may  now  and  then  assert  itself  as  a  power 
worthy  to  be  followed.  Otherwise  it  is  as  a  rule  a  factory  working 
for  the  benefit  of  Culture-Philistinism. 

On  entering  life,  then,  young  people  meet  with  various  col¬ 
lective  opinions,  more  or  less  narrow-minded.  The  more  the  indi¬ 
vidual  has  it  in  him  to  become  a  real  personality,  the  more  he  will 
resist  following  a  herd.  But  even  if  an  inner  voice  says  to  him: 
“Become  thyself!  By  thyself  I”  he  hears  its  appeal  with  despondency. 
Has  he  a -self  ?  He  does  not  know;  he  is  not  yet  aware  of  it. 

He  therefore  looks  about  for  a  teacher,  an  educator,  one  who 
will  teach  him,  not  something  foreign,  but  how  to  become  his  own 
individual  self. 

We  had  in  Denmark  a  great  man  who  with  impressive  force 
exhorted  his  contemporaries  to  become  individuals.  But  Soren  Kierke¬ 
gaard’s  appeal  was  not  intended  to  be  taken  so  unconditionally  as 
it  sounded.  For  the  goal  was  fixed.  They  were  to  become  indi¬ 
viduals,  not  in  order  to  develop  into  free  personalities,  but  in  order 
-  by  this  means  to  become  true  Christians.  Their  freedom  was  only 
apparent-;  above  them  was  suspended  a  “Thou  shalt  believe!”  and 
'a  “Thou  shalt  obey!”  Even  as  individuals  they  had  a  halter  round 
their  necks,  and  on  the  farther  side  of  the  narrow  passage  of  ind  - 
vidualism,  through  which  the  herd  was  driven,  the  herd  awaited 
them  again — one  flock,  one  shepherd. 

It  is  not  with  this  idea  of  immediately  resigning  his  personality 
again  that  the  young  man  in  our  day  desires  to  become  himself  and 
seeks  an  educator.  He  'will  not  have  a  dogma  set  up  before  him,  at 
wMch  he  is  expected  to  arrive.  But  he  has  an  uneasy  feeling  that 
he  is  packed  with  dogmas.  How  is  he  to  find  himself  in  himself, 
how  ’s  he  to  dig  himself  out  of  himself?  This  is  where  the  educator 
should  help  him.  An  educator  can  only  be  a  liberator. 

It  was  a  liberating  educator  of  this  kind  that  Nietzsche  as  a 
young  man  looked  for  and  found  in  Schopenhauer.  Such  a  one  will 
be  found  by  every  seeker  in  the  personality  that  has  the  most  lib¬ 
erating  effect  on  him  during  his  period  of  development.  Nietzsche 
says  that  as  soon  as  he  had  read  a  single  page  of  Schopenhauer, 
he  knew  he  would  read  every  page  of  him  and  pay  heed  to  every 
word,  even  to  the  errors  he  might  find.  Every  intellectual  aspirant 
will  be  able  to  name  men  whom  he  has  read  in  this  way. 

It  is  true  that  for  Nietzsche,  as  for  any  other  aspirant,  there 
remained  one  more  step  to  be  taken,  that  of  liberating  himself  from 
the  liberator.  We  find  in  his  earliest  writings  certain  favorite  ex¬ 
pressions  of  Schopenhauer’s  which  no  longer  appear  in  his  later 
works.  But  the  liberation  is  here  a  tranquil  development  to  inde¬ 
pendence,  throughout  which  he  retains  his  deep  gratitude;  not,  as 
in  his  relations  with  Wagner,  a  violent  revulsion  which  leads  him 
to  deny  any  value  to  the  works  he  had  once  regarded  as  the  most 
valuable  of  all. 

He  praises  Schopenhauer’s  lofty  honesty,  beside  which  he  can 
only  place  Montaigne’s,  his  lucidity,  his  constancy,  and  the  purity 
of  his  relations  with  society,  State  and  State-religion,  which  are 


8 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


in  such  sharp  contrast  with  those  of  Kant.  With  Schopenhauer 
there  is  never  a  concession,  never  a  dallying. 

And  Nietzsche  is  astounded  by  the  fact  that  Schopenhauer  could 
endure  life  in  Germany  at  all.  A  modern  Englishman  has  said: 
“Shelley  could  never  have  lived  in  England:  a  race  of  Shelleys 
would  have  been  impossible.”  Spirits  of  this  kind  are  early  broken, 
then  become  melancholy,  morbid  or  insane.  The  society  of  the  Cul- 
ture-Philistines  makes  life  a  burden  to  exceptional  men.  Examples 
of  this  occur  in  plenty  in  the  literature  of  every  country,  and  the 
trial  is  constantly  being  made. ‘We  need  only  think  of  the  number 
of  talented  men  who  sooner  or  later  make  their  apologies  and  con¬ 
cessions  to  philistinism,  so  as  to  be  permitted  to  exist.  But  even 
in  the  strongest  the  vain  and  weary  struggle  with  Culture-Philistin¬ 
ism  shows  itself  in  lines  and  wrinkles.  Nietzsche  quotes  the  saying 
of  the  old  diplomatist,  who  had  only  casually  seen  and  spoken  to 
Goethe :  “Voila  un  homme  qui  a  eu  de  grands  chagrins,”  and  Goethe's 
comment,  when  repeating  it  to  his  friends:  “If  the  traces  of  our 
sufferings  and  activities  are  indelible  even  in  our  features,  it  is  no 
wonder  that  all  that  survives  of  us  and  our  struggles  should  bear 
the  same  marks.”  And  this  is  Goethe,  who  is  looked  upon  as  the 
favorite  of  fortune! 

Schopenhauer,  as  is  well  known,  was  until  his  latest  years  a 
solitary  man.  No  one  understood  him,  no  one  read  him.  The  greater 
part  of  the  first  edition  of  his  work.  Die  Welt  als  Wille  und  Vor- 
stellung,  had  to  be  sold  as  waste  paper. 

In  our  day  Taine’s  view  has  widely  gained  ground,  that  the 
great  man  is  entirely  determined  by  the  age  whose  child  he  is,- 
that  he  unconsciously  sums  it  up  and  ought  consciously  to  give  it 
expression.!  But  although,  of  course,  the  great  man  does  not  stand 
outside  the  course  of  history  and  must  always  depend  upon  prede¬ 
cessors,  an  idea  nevertheless  always  germinates  in  a  single  indi¬ 
vidual  or  in  a  few  individuals;  and  these  individuals  are  not  scat¬ 
tered  points  in  the  low-lying  mass,  but  highly  gifted  ones  who 
draw  the  mass  to  them  instead  of  being  drawn  by  it.  What  is  called 
the  spirit  of  the  age  originates  in  quite  a  small  number  of  brains. 

Nietzsche  who,  mainly  no  doubt  through  Schopenhauer's  influ¬ 
ence,  had  originally  been  strongly  impressed  by  the  dictum  that  the 
great  man  is  not  the  child  of  his  age  but  its  step-child,  demands 
that  the  educator  shall  help  the  young  to  educate  themselves 
in  opposition  to  the  age. 

It  appears  to  him  that  the  modern  age  has  produced  |or  imi¬ 
tation  three  particular  types  of  man,  one  after  the  other.  First 
Rousseau’s  man,  the  Titan  who  raises  himself,  oppressed  and  bound 
by  the  higher  castes,  and  in  his  need  calls  upon  holy  Nature.  Then 
Goethe’s  man;  not  Werther  or  the  revolutionary  figures  related  to 
him,  who  are  still  derived  from  Rousseau,  nor  the  original  Faust 
figure,  but  Faust  as  he  gradually  develops.  He  is  no  liberator,  but 
a  spectator,  of  the  world.  He  is  not  the  man  of  action.  Nietzsche  re¬ 
minds  us  of  Jarno’s  words  to  Wilhelm  Meister:  “You  are  vexed  and 


1  The  author  of  these  lines  has  not  made  himself  the  advocate  of  this 
view,  as  has  sometimes  been  publicly  stated,  but  on  the  contrary  has  opposed 
it.  After  some  uncertainty  I  pronounced  against  it  as  early  as  1870,  in  “Den 
franske  j®}sthetik  i  vore  Dage,”  pp.  105,  106,  and  afterwards  in  many  other 
places. 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


9 


bitter,  that  is  a  very  good  thing.  If  you  could  be  thoroughly  angry 
for  once,  it  would  be  better  still.” 

To  become  thoroughly  angry  in  order  to  make  things  better, 
this,  in  the  view  of  the  Nietzsche  of  thirty,  will  be  the  exhortation 
of  Schopenhauer’s  man.  This  man  voluntarily  takes  upon  himself 
the  pain  of  telling  the  truth.  His  fundamental  idea  is  this:  A  life 
of  happiness  is  impossible;  the  highest  a  man  can  attain  to  is  a 
heroic  life,  one  in  which  he  fights  against  the  greatest  difficulties 
for  something  which,  in  one  way  or  another,  will  be  for  the  good 
of  all.  To  what  is  truly  human,  only  true  human  beings  can  raise 
us;  those  who  seem  to  have  come  into  being  by  a  leap  in  Nature; 
thinkers  and  educators,  artists  and  creators,  and  those  who  in¬ 
fluence  us  more  by  their  nature  than  by  their  activity:  the  noble, 
the  good  in  a  grand  style,  those  in  whom  the  genius  of  good  is  at 
work. 

These  men  are  the  aim  of  history. 

Nietzsche  formulates  this  proposition:  “Humanity  must  work 
unceasingly  for  the  production  of  solitary  great  men — this  and 
nothing  else  is  its  task.”  This  is  the  same  formula  at  which  several 
aristocratic  spirits  among  his  contemporaries  have  arrived.  Thus 
Renan  says,  almost  in  the  same  words:  “In  fine,  the  object  of  hu¬ 
manity  is  the  production  of  great  men  .  .  .  nothing  but  great  men; 
salvation  will  come  from  great  men.”  And  we  see  from  Flaubert’s 
letters  to  George  Sand  how  convinced  he  was  of  the  same  thing.  He 
says,  for  instance:  “The  only  rational  thing  is  and  always  will  be 
a  government  of  mandarins,  provided  that  the  mandarins  can  do 
something,  or  rather,  can  do  much  ...  It  matters  little  whether  a 
greater  or  smaller  number  of  peasants  are  able  to  read  instead  of 
listening  to  their  priest,  but  it  is  infinitely  important  that  many 
men  like  Renan  and  Littre  may  live  and  be  heard.  Our  salvation  now 
lies  in  a  real  aristocracy.”^  Both  Renan  and  Flaubert  would  have 
subscribed  to  Nietzsche’s  fundamental  idea  that  a  nation  is  the 
roundabout  way  Nature  goes  in  order  to  produce  a  dozen  great 
men. 

Yet,  although  the  idea  does  not  lack  advocates,  this  does  not 
make  it  a  dominant  thought  in  European  philosophy.  In  Germany, 
for  instance,  Eduard  von  Hartmann  thinks  very  differently  of  the 
aim  of  history.  His  published  utterances  on  the  subject  are  well 
known.  In  conversation  he  once  hinted  how  his  idea  had  originated 
in  his  mind:  “It  was  clear  to  me  long  ago,”  he  said,  “that  history, 
or,  to  use  a  wider  expression,  the  world  process,  must  have  an  aim, 
and  that  this  aim  could  only  be  negative.  For  a  golden  age  is  too 
foolish  a  figment.”  Hence  his  visions  of  a  destruction  of  the  world 
voluntarily  brought  about  by  the  most  gifted  men.  And  connected 
with  this  is  his  doctrine  that  humanity  has  now  reached  man’s 
estate,  that  is,  has  passed  the  stage  of  development  in  which  genius¬ 
es  were  necessary. 

In  the  face  of  all  this  talk  of  the  world  process,  the  aim  of 
which  is  annihilation  or  deliverance — deliverance  even  of  the  suf¬ 
fering  godhead  from  existence — Nietzsche  takes  a  very  sober  and 
sensible  stand  with  his  simple  belief  that  the  goal  of  humanity 


1  Nietzsche;  “Thoughts  out  of  Season,”  II.,  p.  155  f.  (English  edition). 
Renan:  “Dialogues  et  Fragments  Philosophiques,”  p.  103.  Flaubert:  “Lettres  a 
George  Sand,”  p.  139  flf. 


10 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


is  not  to  be  infinitely  deferred,  but  must  be  found  in  the  highest 
examples  of  humanity  itself. 

And  herewith  he  has  arrived  at  his  final  answer  to  the  ques¬ 
tion,  What  is  culture?  For  upon  this  relation  depend  the  funda¬ 
mental  idea  of  culture  and  the  duties  culture  imposes.  It  imposes 
on  me  the  duty  of  associating  myself  by  my  own  activity  with  the 
great  human  ideals.  Its  fundamental  idea  is  this:  it  assigns  to 
every  individual  who  wishes  to  work  for  it  and  participate  in  it, 
the  task  of  striving  to  produce,  within  and  without  himself,  the 
thinker  and  artist,  the  lover  of  truth  and  beauty,  the  pure  and 
good  personality,  and  thereby  striving  for  the  perfection  of  Nature, 
towards  the  goal  of  a  perfected  Nature. 

When  does  a  state  of  culture  prevail?  When  the  men  of  a 
community  are  steadily  working  for  the  production  of  single  great 
men.  From  this  highest  aim  all  the  others  follow.  And  what  state  is 
farthest  removed  from  a  state  of  culture?  That  in  which  men  ener¬ 
getically  and  with  united  forces  resist  the  appearance  of  great 
men,  partly  by  preventing  the  cultivation  of  the  soil  required  for 
the  growth  of  genius,  partly  by  obstinately  opposing  everything  in 
the  shape  of  genius  that  appears  amongst  them.  Such  a  state  is 
more  remote  from  culture  than  that  of  sheer  barbarism. 

But  does  such  a  state  exist?  perhaps  some  one  will  ask.  Most 
of  the  smaller  nations  will  be  able  to  read  the  answer  in  the  history 
of  their  native  land.  It  will  there  be  seen,  in  proportion  as  “re¬ 
finement”  grows,  that  the  refined  atmosphere  is  diffused,  which 
is  unfavorable  to  genius.  And  this  is  all  the  more  serious,  since 
many  people  think  that  in  modern  times  and  in  the  races  which 
now  share  the  dominion  of  the  world  among  them,  a  political  com¬ 
munity  of  only  a  few  millions  is  seldom  sufficiently  numerous  to 
produce  minds  of  the  very  first  order.  It  looks  as  if  geniuses  could 
only  be  distilled  from  some  thirty  or  forty  millions  of  people.  Nor¬ 
way  with  Ibsen,  Belgium  with  Maeterlinck  and  Verhaeren  are  excep¬ 
tions.  All  the  more  reason  is  there  for  the  smaller  communities  to 
work  at  culture  to  their  utmost  capacity. 

In  recent  times  we  have  become  familiar  with  the  thought  that 
the  goal  to  be  aimed  at  is  happiness,  the  happiness  of  all,  or  at 
any  rate  of  the  greatest  number.  Wherein  happiness  consists  is  less 
frequently  discussed,  and  yet  it  is  impossible  to  avoid  the  question, 
whether  a  year,  a  day,  an  hour  in  Paradise  does  not  bring  more 
happiness  than  a  lifetime  in  the  chimney-corner.  But  be  that  as  it 
may:  owing  to  our  familiarity  with  the  notion  of  making  sacrifices 
for  a  whole  country,  a  multitude  of  people,  it  appears  unreasonable 
that  a  man  should  exist  for  the 'sake  of  a  few  other  men,  that  it 
should  be  his  duty  to  devote  his  life  to  them  in  order  thereby  to 
promote  culture.  But  nevertheless  the  answer  to  the  question  of 
culture — how  the  individual  human  life  may  acquire  its  highest 
value  and  its  greatest  significance — must  be:  By  being  lived  for 
the  benefit  of  the  rarest  and  most  valuable  examples  of  the  human 
race.  This  will  also  be  the  way  in  which  the  individual  can  best 
impart  a  value  to  the  life  of  the  greatest  number. 

In  our  day  a  so-called  cultural  institution  means  an  organi- 
#  zation  in  virtue  of  which  the  “cultured”  advance  in  serried  ranks 
and  thrust  aside  all  solitary  and  obstinate  men  whose  efforts  are 
directed  to  higher  ends;  therefore  even  the  learned  are  as  a  rule 
lacking  in  any  sense  for  budding  genius  and  any  feeling  for  the 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


11 


value  of  struggling  contemporary  genius.  Therefore,  in  spite  of  the 
indisputable  and  restless  progress  in  all  technical  and  specialized 
departments,  the  conditions  necessary  to  the  appearance  of  great 
men  are  so  far  from  having  improved,  that  dislike  of  genius  has 
rather  increased  than  diminished. 

From  the  State  the  exceptional  individual  cannot  expect  much. 
He  is  seldom  benefited  by  being  taken  into  its  service;  the  only 
certain  advantage  it  can  give  him  is  complete  independence.  Only 
real  culture  will  prevent  hi's  being  too  early  tired  out  or  used  up, 
and  will  spare  him  the  exhausting  struggle  against  Culture-Phil¬ 
istinism. 

Nietzsche’s  value  lies  in  his  being  one  of  these  vehicles  of  cul¬ 
ture:  a,  mind  which,  itself  independent,  diffuses  independence  and 
may  become  to  others  a  liberating  force,  such  as  Schopenhauer  was 
to  Nietzsche  himself  in  his  younger  days. 


2 

* 

Pour  of  Nietzsche's  early  works  bear  the  collective  title, 
Thoughts  out  of  Season  (Unzeitgemasse  Betrachtungen),  a  title 
which  is  significant  of  his  early-formed  determination  to  go  against 
the  stream. 

One  of  the  fields  in  which  he  opposed  the  spirit  of  the  age  in 
Germany  is  that  of  education,  since  he  condemns  in  the  most  un¬ 
compromising  fashion  the  entire  historical  system  of  education  of 
which  Germany  is  proud,  and  which  as  a  rule  is  everywhere  re¬ 
garded  as  desirable. 

His  view  is  that  what  keeps  the  race  from  breathing  freely 
and  willing  boldly  is  that  it  drags  far  too  much  of  its  past  about 
with  it,  like  a  round-shot  chained  to  a  convict’s  leg.  He  thinks  it 
is  historical  education  that  fetters  the  race  both  in  enjoyment  and 
in  action,  since  he  who  cannot  concentrate  himself  on  the  moment 
and  live  entirely  in  it,  can  neither  feel  happiness  himself  nor  do 
anything  to  make  others  happy.  Without  the  power  of  feeling  un- 
historically,  there  is  no  happiness.  And  in  the  same  way,  forgetful¬ 
ness,  or,  rather,  non-knowledge  of  the  past  is  essential  to  all  action. 
Forgetfulness,  the  unhistorical,  is  as  it  were  the  enveloping  air,  the 
atrnosphere,  in  which  alone  life  can  come  into  being.  In  order^  to 
understand  it,  let  us  imaging  a  youth  who  is  seized  with  a  passion 
for  a  woman,  or  a  man  Vv^ho  is  swayed  by  a  passion  for  his  work. 
In  both  cases  what  lies  behind  them  has  ceased  to  exist — and  yet 
this  state  (the  most  unhistorical  that  can  be  imagined)  is  that  in 
which  every  action,  every  great  deed  is  conceived  and  accomplished. 
Now  answering  to  this,  says  Nietzsche,  there  exists  a  certain  de¬ 
gree  of  historical  knowledge  which  is  destructive  of  a  man’s  energy 
and  fatal  to  the  productive  powers  of  h  nation. 

In  this  reasoning  we  can  hear  the  voice  of  the  learned  German 
philologist,  whose  observations  have  mostly  been  drawn  from  Ger¬ 
man  scholars  and  artists.  For  it  would  be  unreasonable  to  suppose 
that  the  commercial  or  peasant  class,  the  'soldiers  or  manufacturers 
of  Germany  suffered  from  an  excess  of  historical  culture.  But 
even  in  the  case  of  German  savants,  authors  and  artists  the  evil 


12 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


here  pointed  out  may  be  of  such  a  nature  as  not  to  admit  of  remedy 
by  simply  abolishing  historical  education.  Those  men  whose  pro¬ 
ductive  impulse  has  been  checked  or  killed  by  historical  studies 
were  already  so  impotent  and  ineffective  that  the  world  would  not 
have  been  enriched  by  their  productions.  And  moreover,  what  pa¬ 
ralyses  is  not  so  much  the  heterogeneous,  mass  of  dead  historical 
learning  (about  the  actions  of  governments,  political  chess-moves, 
military  achievements,  artistic  styles,  etc.),  as  the  knowledge  of 
certain  great  minds  of  the  past,  by  the  side  of  whose  production 
anything  that  can  be  shown  by  a  man  now  living  appears  so  in¬ 
significant  as  to  make  it  a  matter  of  indifference  whether  his  work 
sees  the  light  or  not.  Goethe  alone  is  enough  to  reduce  a  young 
German  poet  to  despair.  But  a  hero-worshipper  like  Nietzsche  can¬ 
not  consistently  desire  to  curtail  our  knowledge  of  the  greatest. 

The  want  of  artistic  courage  and  intellectual  boldness  has  cer¬ 
tainly  deeper-lying  causes;  above  all,  the  disintegration  of  the  in¬ 
dividuality  which  the  modern  order  of  society  involves.  Strong  men 
can  carry  a  heavy  load  of  history  without  becoming  incapacitated 
for  living. 

But  what  is  interesting  and  significant  of  Nietzsche’s  whole 
intellectual  standpoint  is  his  inquiry  as  to  how  far  life  is  able  to 
make  use  of  history.  History,  in  his  view,  belongs  to  him  who  is 
fighting  a  great  fight,  and  who  needs  examples,  teachers  and  com¬ 
forters,  but  cannot  find  them  among  his  contemporaries.  Without 
history  the  mountain  chain  of  great  men’s  great  moments,  which 
runs  through  millenium's,  could  not  stand  clearly  and  vividly  be¬ 
fore  me.  When  one  sees  that  it  only  took  about  a  hundred  men  to 
bring  in  the  culture  of  the  Renaissance,  it  may  easily  be  supposed, 
for  example,  that  a  hundred  productive  minds,  trained  in  a  new 
style,  would  be  enough  to  make  an  end  of  Culture-Philistinism.  On 
the  other  hand,  history  may  have  pernicious  effects  in  the  hands 
of  unproductive  men.  Thus  young  artists  are  driven  into  galleries 
in’stead  of  out  into  nature,  and  are  sent,  with  minds  still  unformed, 
to  centres  of  art,  where  they  lose  courage.  And  in  all  its  forms  his¬ 
tory  may  render  men  unfit  for  life;  in  its  monumental  form  by 
evoking  the  illusion  that  there  are  such  things  as  fixed,  recurring 
historical  conjunctions,  so  that  what  has  once  been  possible  is  now, 
in  entirely  altered  conditions,  possible  again;  in  its  antiquarian 
form  by  awakening  a  feeling  of  piety  for  ancient,  bygone  things, 
which  paralyses  the  man  of  action,  who  must  always,  outrage  some 
piety  or  other;  finally  in  its  critical  form  by  giving  rise  to  the  de¬ 
pressing  feeling  that  the  very  errors  of  the  past,  which  we  are 
striving  to  overcome,  are  inherited  in  our  blood  and  impressed  on 
our  childhood,  so  that  we  live  in  a  continual  inner  conflict  between 
an  old  and  a  new  nature. 

On  this  point,  a’s  on  others  already  alluded  to,  Nietzsche’s 
quarrel  is  ultimately  with  the  broken-winded  education  of  the  pres¬ 
ent  day.  That  education  and  historical  education  have  in  our  time 
almost  become  synonymous  terms,  is  to  him  a  mournful  sign.  It 
has  been  irretrievably  forgotten  that  culture  ought  to  be  what  it 
was  with  the  Greeks :  a  motive,  a  prompting  to  resolution ;  nowa¬ 
days  culture  is  commonly  described  as  inwardness,  because  it  is  a 
dead  internal  lump,  which  does  not  stir  its  possessor.  The  most 
“educated”  people  are  walking  encyclopedias.  When  they  act,  they 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


13 


do  so  in  virtue  of  a  universally  approved,  miserable  convention,  or 
else  from  simple  barbarism. 

With  this  reflection,  no  doubt  of  general  application,  is  con¬ 
nected  a  complaint  which  was  bound  to  be  evoked  by  modern  liter¬ 
ary  Germany  in  particular;  the  complaint  of  the  oppressive  effect  of 
the  greatness  of  former  times,  as  shown  in  the  latter-day  man’s 
conviction  that  he  is  a  late-comer,  an  after-birth  of  a  greater  age, 
who  may  indeed  teach  himself  history,  but  can  neyer  produce  it. 

Even  philosophy,  Nietzsche  complaias,  with  a  side-glance  at 
the  German  universities,  hos  been  more  and  more  transformed  into 
the  history  of  philosophy,  a  teaching  of  what  everybody  has  thought 
about  everything;  “a  sort  of  harmless  gossip  between  academic 
grey-beards  and  academic  sucklings.”  It  is  boasted  as  a  point  of 
honor  that  freedom  of  thought  exists  in  various  countries.  In  reality 
it  is  only  a  poor  sort  of  freedom.  One  may  think  in  a  hundred  ways, 
but  one  may  only  avl  in  one  way — and  that  is  the  way  that  is  call¬ 
ed  “culture”  and  is  in  reality  “only  a  form,  and  what  is  more  a  bad 
fo4.m,  a  uniform.” 

Nietzsche  attacks  the  view  which  regards  the  historically  cul¬ 
tured  person  as  the  justest  of  all.  We  honor  the  historian  who  aims 
at  pure  knowledge,  from  which  nothing  follows.  But  there  are  many 
trivial  truths,  and  it  is  a  misfortune  that  whole  battalions  of  in¬ 
quirers  should  fling  themselves'  upon  them,  even  if  these  narrow 
minds  belong  to  honest  men.  The  historian  is  looked  upon  as  ob¬ 
jective  when  he  measures  the  past  by  the  popular  opinions  of  his 
own  time,  as  subjective  when  he  does  not  take  these  opinions  for 
models.  That  man  is  thougrhc  best  fitted  to  depict  a  period  of  the 
past,  w’ho  is  aoi  hi  the  letst  affected  by  that  period.  But  only  he 
who  has  a  share  ad.  building  up  the  future  can  grasp  what  the  past 
has  been,  and  only  when  transformed  into  a  work  of  art  can  history 
arouse  or  even  sustain  instincts. 

As  historical  education  is  now  conducted,  the  mass  of  impres¬ 
sions  communicated  is  so  great  as  to  produce  numbness,  a  feeling 
of  being  born  old  of  an  old  stock — although  less  than  thirty  human 
lives,  reckoned  at  seventy  years  each,  divide  us  from  the  beginning 
of  our  era.  And  with  this  is  connected  the  immense  superstition  of 
the  value  and  significance  of  universal  history.  Schiller’s  phrase 
is  everlastingly  repeated:  “The  history  of  the  world  is  the  tribunal 
of  the  world,”  as  though  there  could  be  any  other  historical  tribunal 
than  thought;  and  the  Hegelian  view  of  history  as  the  ever-clearer 
self-revelation  of  the  godhead  has  obstinately  held  its  own,  only  that 
it  has  gradually  passed  into  sheer  admiration  of  success,  an  ap¬ 
proval  of  any  and  every  fact,  be  it  never  'so  brutal.  But  greatness 
has  nothing  to  do  with  results  or  with  success.  Demosthenes,  who 
spoke  in  vain,  is  greater  than  Philip,  who  was  always  victorious. 
Everything  in  our  day  is  thought  to  be  in  order,  if  only  it  be  an 
accomplished  fact;  even  when  a  man  of  genius  dies  in  the  fulness 
of  his  power's,  proofs  are  forthcoming  that  he  died  at  the  right 
time.  And  the  fragment  of  history  we  possess  is  entitled  “the  world 
process”;  men  cudgel  their  brains,  like  Eduard  von  Hartmann,  in 
trying  to  find  out  its  origin  and  final  goal — which  seems  to  be  a 
waste  of  time.  Why  you  exist,  says  Nietzsche  with  Soren  Kierke¬ 
gaard,  nobody  in  the  world  can  tell  you  in  advance;  but  since  you 


14 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


do  exist,  try  to  give  your  existence  a  meaning  by  setting  up  for 
yourself  as  lofty  and  noble  a  goal  as  you  can. 

Significant  of  Nietzsche  aristocratic  tendency,  so  marked  later, 
is  his  anger  with  the  deference  paid  by  modern  historians  to  the 
masses.  Formerly,  he  argues,  history  was  written  from  the  stand¬ 
point  of  the  rulers;  it  was  occupied  exclusively  with  them,  how¬ 
ever  mediocre  or  bad  they  might  be.  Now  it  has  crossed  over  to  the 
standpoint  of  the  masses.  But  the  masses — they  are  only  to  be  re¬ 
garded  as  one  of  three  things;  either  as  copies  of  great  personali¬ 
ties,  bad  copies,  clumsily  produced  in  a  poor  material,  or  as  foils 
to  the  great,  or  finally  as  their  tools.  Otherwise  they  are  matter 
for  statisticians  to  deal  with,  who  find  so-called  historical  laws  in 
the  instincts  of  the  masses — raping,  laziness,  hunger  and  sexual  im¬ 
pulse.  What  has  set  the  mass  in  motion  for  any  length  of  time  is 
then  called  great.  It  is  given  the  name  of  a  historical  power.  When, 
for  example,  the  vulgar  mob  has  appropriated  or  adapted  to  its 
needs  some  religious  idea,  has  defended  it  stubbornly  and  dragged 
it  along  for  centuries,  then  the  originator  of  that  idea  is  called 
great.  There  is  the  testimony  of  thousands  of  years  for  it,  we  are 
told.  But — this  is  Nietzsche’s  and  Kierkegaard’s  idea — the  noblest 
and  highest  does  not  affect  the  masses  at  all,  either  at  the  moment 
or  later.  Therefore  the  historical  success  of  a  religion,  its  tough¬ 
ness  and  persistence,  witness  against  its  founder’s  greatness  rather 
than  for  it. 

When  an  instance  is  required  of  one  of  the  few  enterprises  in 
history  that  have  been  completely  successful,  the  Reformation  is 
commonly  chosen.  Against  the  significance  of  this  success  Nietzsche 
does  not  urge  the  facts  usually  quoted:  its  early  secularization  by 
Luther;  his  compromises  with  those  in  power;  the  interest  of 
princes  in  emancipating  themselves  from  the  mastery  of  the  Church 
and  laying  hands  on  its  estates,  while  at  the  same  time  securing  a 
submissive  and  dependent  clergy  instead  of  one  independent  of  the 
State.  He  sees  the  chief  cause  of  the  success  of  the  Reformation 
in  the  uncultured  state  of  the  nations  of  northern  Europe.  Many 
attempts  at  founding  new  Greek  religions  came  to  naught  in  an¬ 
tiquity.  Although  men  like  Pythagoras,  Plato,  perhaps  Empedocles, 
had  qualifications  as  founders  of  religions,  the  individuals  they 
had  to  deal  with  were  far  too  diversified  in  their  nature  to  be  helped 
by  a  common  doctrine  of  faith  and  hope.  In  contrast  with  this,  the 
success  of  Luther’s  Reformation  in  the  North  was  an  indication  that 
northern  culture  was  behind  that  of  southern  Europe.  The  people 
either  blindly  obeyed  a  watchword  from  above,  like  a  flock  of  sheep; 
or,  where  conversion  was  a  matter  of  conscience,  it  revealed  how 
little  individuality  there  wias  among  a  population  which  was  found 
to  be  so  homogeneous  in  its  spiritual  needs.  In  the  same  way,  too, 
the  original  conversion  of  pagan  antiquity  was  only  successful  on 
account  of  the  abundant  intermixture  of  barbarian  with  Roman 
blood  which  had  taken  place.  The  new  doctrine  was  forced  upon 
the  masters  of  the  world  by  barbarians  and  slaves. 

The  reader  now  has  examples  of  the  arguments  Nietzsche  em¬ 
ploys  in  support  of  his  proposition  that  history  is  not  so  sound 
and  strengthening  an  educational  factor  as  is  thought:  only  he  who 
has  learnt  to  know  life  and  is  equipped  for  action  has  use  for  his¬ 
tory  and  is  capable  of  applying  it;  others  are  oppressed  by  it  and 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


15 


rendered  unproductive  by  being  made  to  feel  themselves  late-com- 
ers,  or  are  induced  to  worship  success  in  every  field. 

Nietzsche’s  contribution  to  this  question  is  a  plea  against  every 
sort  of  historical  optimism;  but  he  energetically  repudiates  the 
ordinary  pessimism,  which  is  the  result  of  degenerate  or  enfeebled 
instincts — of  decadence.  He  preaches  with  youthful  enthusiasm  the 
triumph  of  a  tragic  culture,  introduced  by  an  intrepid  rising  gen¬ 
eration,  in  which  the  spirit  of  ancient  Greece  might  be  born  again. 
He  rejects  the  pessimism  of  Schopenhauer,  for  he  already  abhors 
all  renunciation;  but  he  seeks  a  pessimism  of  healthiness,  one  de¬ 
rived  from  strength,  from  exuberant  power,  and  he  believes  he  has 
found  it  in  the  Greeks.  He  has  developed  this  view  in  the  learned 
and  profound  work  of  his  youth.  The  Birth  of  Tragedy,  or  Hellen¬ 
ism  and  Pessimism,  in  which  he  introduced  two  new  terms,  Appol- 
lonian  and  Dionipian.  The  two  Greek  deities  of  art,  Appolo  and 
Dionysus,  denote  the  antithesis  between  plastic  art  and  music.  The 
former  corresponds  to  dreaming,  the  latter  to  drunkenness.  In 
dreams  the  forms  of  the  gods  first  appeared  to  men ;  dreams  are  the 
world  of  beauteous  appearance.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  we  look  down 
into  man’s  lowest  depths,  below  the  spheres  of  thought  and  imagina¬ 
tion,  we  come  upon  a  world  of  terror  and  rapture,  the  realm  of 
Dionysus.  Above  reign  beauty,  measure  and  proportion;  but  under¬ 
neath  the  profusion  of  Nature  surges  freely  in  pleasure  and  pain. 
Regarded  from  Nietzsche’s  later  standpoint,  the  deeper  motive  of 
this  searching  absorption  in  Hellenic  antiquity  becomes  apparent. 
Even  at  this  early  stage  he  suspects,  in  what  passes  for  morality, 
a  disparaging  principle  directed  against  Nature;  he  looks  for  its 
essential  antithesis,  and  finds  it  in  the  purely  artistic  principle, 
farthest  removed  from  Christianity,  which  he  calls  Dionysian. 

Our  author’s  main  psychological  features  are  now  clearly  ap¬ 
parent.  What  kind  of  a  nature  is  it  that  carries  this  'savage  hatred 
of  philistinism  even  as  far  as  to  David  Strauss?  An  artist’s  nature, 
obviously.  What  kind  of  a  writer  is  it  who  warns  us  with  such  firm 
conviction  against  the  dangers  of  historical  culture?  A  philologist 
obviously,  who  has  ^experienced  them  in  himself,  has  felt  himself 
threatened  with  becoming  a  mere  aftermath  and  tempted  to  worship 
historical  success.  What  kind  of  a  nature  is  it  that  so  passionately 
defines  culture  as  the  worship  of  genius?  Certainly  no  Eckermann- 
nature,  but  an  enthusiast,  willing  at  the  outset  to  obey  where  he 
cannot  command,  but  quick  to  recognize  his  own  masterful  bias, 
and  to  see  that  humanity  is  far  from  having  outgrown  the  ancient 
antithetical  relation  of  commanding  and  obeying.  The  appearance  of 
Napoleon  is  to  him,  as  to  many  others,  a  proof  of  this;  in  the  joy 
that  thrilled  thousands,  when  at  last  they  saw  one  who  knew  how 
to  command. 

But  in  the  sphere  of  ethics  he  is  not  disposed  to  preach  obedi¬ 
ence.  On  the  contrary,  constituted  as  he  is,  he  sees  the  apathy  and 
meanness  of  our  modern  morality  in  the  fact  that  it  still  upholds 
obedience  as  the  highest  moral  commandment,  instead  of  the  power 
of  dictating  to  one’s  self  one’s  own  morality. 

His  military  schooling  and  participation  in  the  war  of  1870-71 
probably  led  to  his  discovery  of  a  hard  and  manly  quality  in  him¬ 
self,  and  imbued  him  with  an  extreme  abhorrence  of  all  softness  and 
effeminacy.  He  turned  aside  with  disgust  from  the  morality  of  pity 


16 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


in  Schopenhauer’s  philosophy  and  from  the  romantic-catholic  ele¬ 
ment  in  Wagner’s  music,  to  both  of  which  he  had  previously  paid 
homage.  He  saw  that  he  had  transformed  both  masters  according  to 
his  own  needs,  and  he  understood  quite  well  the  instinct  of  self- 
preservation  that  was  here  at  work.  The  aspiring  mind  creates  the 
helpers  it  requires.  Thus  he  afterwards  dedicated  his  book.  Human, 
all-too-Human,  which  was  published  on  Voltaire’s  centenary,  to  the 
“free  spirits”  among  his  contemporaries;  his  dreams  created  the 
associates  that  he  had  not  yet  found  in  the  flesh. 

The  severe  and  painful  illness  which  began  in  his  thirty-second 
year  and  long  made  him  a  recluse,  detached  him  from  all  romanti¬ 
cism  and  freed  his  heart  from  all  bonds  of  piety.  It  carried  him  far 
away  from  pessimism,  in  virtue  of  his  proud  thought  that  “a  suf¬ 
ferer  has  no  right  to  pessimism.”  This  illness  made  a  philosopher  of 
him  in  a  strict  sense.  His  thoughts  stole  inquisitively  along  forbid¬ 
den  paths:  This  thing  passes  for  a  value.  Can  we  not  turn  it  upside- 
down?  This  is  regarded  as  good.  Is  it  not  rather  evil — Is  not  God 
refuted?  But  can  we  say  as  much  of  the  devil? — Are  we  not  de¬ 
ceived?  and  deceived  deceivers,  all  of  us?  .  .  . 

And  then  out  of  this  long  sickliness  arises  a  passionate  desire 
for  health,  the  joy  of  the  convalescent  in  life,  in  light,  in  warmth, 
in  freedom  and  ease  of  mind,  in  the  range  and  horizon  of  thought, 
in  “visions  of  new  dawns,”  in  creative  capacity,  in  poetical  strength. 
And  he  enters  upon  the  lofty  self-confidence  and  ecstasy  of  a  long 
uninterrupted  production. 


It  is  neither  possible'  nor  necessary  to  review  here  the  long 
series  of  his  writings.  In  calling  attention  to  an  author  who  is  still 
unread,  one  need  only  throw  his  most  characteristic  thoughts  and 
expressions  into  relief,  so  that  the  reader  with  little  trouble  may 
form  an  idea  of  his  way  of  thinking  and  quality  of  mind.  The  task 
is  here  rendered  difficult  by  Nietzsche’s  thinking  in  aphorisms,  and 
facilitated  by  hi's  habit  of  emphasizing  every  thought  in  such  a  way 
as  to  give  it  a  startling  appearance. 

English  utilitarianism  has  met  with  little  acceptance  in  Ger¬ 
many;  among  more  eminent  contemporary  thinkers  Eugen  Duhring 
is  its  chief  advocate;  Friedrich  Paulsen  also  sides  with  the  Eng¬ 
lishmen.  Eduard  von  Hartmann  has  attempted  to  demonstrate  the 
impossibility  of  simultaneously  promoting  culture  and  happiness. 
Nietzsche  finds  new  difficulties  in  an  analysis  of  the  concept  of  hap¬ 
piness.  The  object  of  utilitarianism  is  to  procure  humanity  as  much 
pleasure  and  as  little  of  the  reverse  as  possible.  But  what  if  pleasure 
and  pain  are  so  intertwined  that  he  who  wants  all  the  pleasure  he 
can  get  must  take  a  corresponding  amount  of  suffering  into  the 
bargain?  Clarchen’s  song  contains  the  words:  “Himmelhoch,  jauch- 
zend,  zum  Tode  betrubt.”  Who  knows  whether  the  latter  is  not  the 
condition  of  the  former?  The  Stoics  believed  this,  and,  wishing  to 
avoid  pain,  asked  of  life  the  minimum  of  pleasure.  Probably  it  is 
equally  unwise  in  our  day  to  promise  men  intense  joys,  if  they  are 
to  be  insured  against  great  sufferings, 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


17 


We  see  that  Nietzsche  transfers  the  question  to  the  highest 
spiritual  plane,  without  regard  to  the  fact  that  the  lowest  and  com¬ 
monest  misfortunes,  such  as  hunger,  physical  exhaustion,  excessive 
and  unhealthy  labour,  yield  no  compensation  in  violent  joys.  Even 
if  all  pleasure  be  dearly  bought  it  does  not  follow  that  all  pain  is 
interrupted  and  counterbalanced  by  intense  enjoyment. 

In  accordance  with  his  aristocratic  bias  he  then  attacks  Ben- 
tham’s  proposition :  the  greatest  possible  happiness  of  the  greatest 
possible  number.  The  ideal  was,  of  course,  to  procure  happiness  for 
everybody;  as  this  could  not  be  done,  the  formula  took  the  above 
shape.  But  why  happiness  for  the  greatest  number?  We  might  im¬ 
agine  it  for  the  best,  the  noblest,  the  most  gifted;  and  we  may  be 
permitted  to  ask  whether  moderate  prosperity  and  moderate  well¬ 
being  are  preferable  to  the  inequality  of  lot  which  acts  as  a  goad, 
forcing  culture  ever  upward. 

Then  there  is  the  doctine  of  unselfishness.  To  be  moral  is  to 
be  unselfish.  It  is  good  to  be  so,  w^e  are  told.  But  what  does  that 
mean — good?  Good  for  whom?  Not  for  the  self-sacrificer,  but  for 
his  neighbor.  He  who  praises  the  virtue  of  unselfishness,  praises 
something  that  is  good  for  the  community  but  harmful  to  the  indi¬ 
vidual.  And  the  neighbor  who  wants  to  be  j^oved  unselfishly  is 
not  himself  unselfish.  The  fundamental  contradiction  in  this  mor¬ 
ality  is  that  it  demands  and  commends  a  renunciation  of  the  ego, 
for  the  benefit  of  another  ego. 

At  the  outset  the  essential  and  invaluable  element  of  all  mor¬ 
ality  is,  in  Nietzsche’s  view,  simply  this,  that  it  is  a  prolonged  con¬ 
straint.  As  language  gains  in  strength  and  freedom  by  the  constraint 
of  verse,  and  as  all  the  freedom  and  delicacy  to  be  found  in  plastic 
art,  music  and  dancing  is  the  result  of  arbitrary  laws,  so  also  does 
human  nature  only  attain  its  development  under  constraint.  No 
violence  is  thereby  done  to  Nature;  this  is  the  very  nature  of  things. 

The  essential  point  is  that  there  should  be  obedience,  for  a  long 
time  and  in  the  same  direction.  Thou  shalt  obey,  some  one  or  some¬ 
thing,  and  for  a  long  time — otherwise  thou  wilt  come  to  grief;  this 
seems  to  be  the  moral  imperative  of  Nature,  which  is  certainly 
neither  categorical  (as  Kant  thought),  nor  addressed  to  the  indi¬ 
vidual  (Nature  does  not  trouble  about  the  individual),  but  seems 
to  be  addressed  to  nations,  classes,  periods,  races — in  fact,  to  man¬ 
kind.  On  the  other  hand,  all  the  morality  that  is  addressed  to  the 
individual  for  his  own  good,  for  the  sake  of  his  own  welfare,  is  re¬ 
duced  in  this  view  to  mere  household  remedies  and  counsels  of 
prudence,  recipes  for  curbing  passions  that  might  want  to  break 
out;  and  all  this  morality  is  preposterous  in  form,  because  it  ad¬ 
dresses  itself  to  all  and  generalizes  what  does  not  admit  of  generali¬ 
zation.  Kant  gave  us  a  guiding  rule  with  his  categorical  imperative. 
But  this  rule  has  failed  us.  It  is  of  no  use  saying  to  us:  Act  as 
others  ought  to  act  in  this  case.  For  we  know  that  there  are  not  and 
cannot  be  such  things  as  identical  actions,  but  that  every  action 
is  unique  in  its  nature,  so  that  any  precept  can  only  apply  to  the 
rough  outside  of  actions. 

But  what  of  the  voice  and  judgment  of  conscience?  The  diffi¬ 
culty  is  that  we  have  a  conscience  behind  our  conscience,  an  in¬ 
tellectual  one  behind  the  moral.  We  can  tell  that  the  judgment^  of 
So-and-So’s  conscience  has  a  past  history  in  his  instincts,  his  origi- 


18 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


nal  sympathies  or  antipathies,  his  experience  or  want  of  experience. 
We  can  see  quite  well  that  our  opinion's  of  what  is  noble  and  good, 
our  moral  valuations,  are  powerful  levers  where  action  is  concerned; 
but  we  must  begin  by  refining  these  opinions  and  independently 
creating  for  ourselves  new  tables  of  values. 

And  as  regards  the  ethical  teachers’  preaching  of  morality  for 
all,  this  is  every  bit  as  empty  as  the  gossip  of  individual  society 
people  about  each  other’s  morals.  Nietzsche  gives  the  moralists  this 
good  advice:  that,  instead  of  trying  to  educate  the  human  race, 
they  should  imitate  the  pedagogues  of  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth 
centuries,  who  concentrated  their  efforts  on  the  education  of^  a 
single  person.  But  as  a  rule  the  moral  ranters  are  themselves  quite 
uneducated  persons,  and  their  children  seldom  rise  above  moral 
mediocrity. 

He  who  feels  that  in  his  inmost  being  he  cannot  be  compared 
with  others,  will  be  his  own  lawgiver.  For  one  thing  is  needful:  to 
give  style  to  one’s  character.  This  art  is  practised  by  him  who, 
with  an  eye  for  the  strong  and  weak  sides  of  his  nature,  remove’s 
from  it  one  quality  and  another,  and  then  by  daily  practice  and 
acquired  habit  replaces  them  by  others  which  become  second  nature 
to  him;  in  other  words,  he  puts  himself  under  restraint  in  order 
by  degrees  to  bend  his  nature  entirely  to  his  own  law.  Only  thus 
does  a  man  arrive  at  satisfaction  with  himself,  and  only  thus  does 
he  become  endurable  to  others.  For  the  dissatisfied  and  the  unsuc¬ 
cessful  as  a  rule  avenge  themselves  on  others.  They  absorb  poison 
from  everything,  from  their  own  incompetence  as  well  as  from  their 
poor  circumstances,  and  they  live  in  a  constant  craving  for  revenge 
on  those  in  whose  nature  they  suspect  harmony.  Such  people  ever 
have  virtuous  precepts  on  their  lips;  the  whole  jingle  of  morality, 
seriousness,  chastity,  the  claims  of  life;  and  their  hearts  ever  burn 
with  envy  of  those  who  have  become  well  balanced  and  can  there¬ 
fore  enjoy  life. 

For  millenniums  morality  meant  obedience  to  cu’Stom,  respect 
for  inherited  usage.  The  free,  exceptional  man  was  immoral,  be¬ 
cause  he  broke  with  the  tradition  which  the  others  regarded  with 
superstitious  fear.  Very  commonly  he  took  the  same  view  and  was 
himself  seized  by  the  terror  he  inspired.  Thus  a  popular  morality 
of  custom  was  unconsciously  elaborated  by  all  who  belonged  to  the 
tribe;  since  fresh  examples  and  proofs  could  always  be  found  of  the 
alleged  relation  between  guilt  and  punishment — if  you  behave  in 
such  and  such  a  way,  it  will  go  badly  v/ith  you.  Now,  as  it  gen¬ 
erally  does  go  badly,  the  allegation  was  constantly  c  mfirmed ;  and 
thus  popular  morality  a  pseudo-science  on  a  level  with  popular 
medicine,  continually  gained  ground. 

Manners  and  customs  represented  the  experiences  of  bygone 
generation's  concering  what  was  supposed  to  be  useful  or  harmful; 
the  sense  of  morality,  however,  does  not  attach  to  these  experiences 
as  such,  but  only  to  their  age,  their  venerability  and  consequent  in¬ 
contestability.  In  the  state  of  war  in  which  a  tribe  existed^  in  old 
times,  threatened  on  every  side,  there  was  no  greater  gratification, 
under  the  sway  of  the  strictest  morality  of  custom,  than  cruelty. 
Cruelty  is  one  of  the  oldest  festal  and  triumphal  joys  of  mankind. 
It  was  thought  that  the  gods,  too,  might  be  gratified  and  festively 
disposed  by  offering  them  the  sight  of  cruelties — and  thus  the 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


19 


idea  insinuated  itself  into  the  world  that  voluntary  self-torture, 
mortification  and  abstinence  are  also  of  great  value,  not  as  disci¬ 
pline,  but  as  a  sweet  savour  unto  the  Lord. 

Christianity  as  a  religion  of  the  past  unceasingly  practiced  and 
preached  the  torture  of  souls.  Imagine  the  state  of  the  medieval 
Christian,  when  he  supposed  he  could  no  longer  escape  eternal  tor¬ 
ment.  Eros  and  Aphrodite  were  in  his  imagination  powers  of  hell, 
and  death  was  a  terror. 

To  the  morality  of  cruelty  has  succeeded  that  of  pity.  The 
morality  of  pity  is  lauded  as  unselfish,  by  Schopenhauer  in  par¬ 
ticular. 

Eduard  von  Hartmann,  in  his  thoughtful  work,  Phanomenologie 
des  sittlichen  Bewusstseins  (pp.  217-240),  has  already  shown  the 
impossibility  of  regarding  pity  as  the  most  important  of  moral  in¬ 
centives,  to  say  nothing  of  its  being  the  only  one,  as  Schopenhauer 
would  have  it.  Nietzsche  attacks  the  morality  of  pity  from  other 
points  of  view.  He  shows  it  to  be  by  no  means  unselfish.  Another’s 
misfortune  affects  us  painfully  and  offends  us — perhaps  brands  us 
as  cowards  if  we  do  not  go  to  his  aid.  Or  it  contains  a  hint  of  a 
possible  danger  to  ourselves;  moreover,  we  feel  joy  in  comparing 
our  own  state  with  that  of  the  unfortunate,  joy  when  we  can  step  in 
as  the  stronger,  the  helper.  The  help  we  afford  gives  us  a  feeling 
of  happiness,  or  perhaps  it  merely  rescues  us  from  boredom. 

Pity  in  the  form  of  actual  fellow-suffering  would  be  a  weak¬ 
ness,  nay,  a  misfortune,  since  it  would  add  to  the  world’s  suffering. 
A  man  who  'seriously  abandoned  himself  to  sympathy  with  all  the 
misery  he  found  about  him,  would  simply  be  destroyed  by  it. 

Among  savages  the  thought  of  arousing  pity  is  regarded  with 
horror.  Those  who  do  so  are  despised.  According  to  savage  notions, 
to  feel  pity  for  a  person  is  to  despise  him;  but  they  find  no  pleasure 
in  seeing  a  contemptible  person  suffer.  On  the  other  hand,  the  sight 
of  an  enemy’s  suffering,  when  his  pride  does  not  forsake  him  in 
the  midst  of  his  torment — that  is  enjoyment,  that  excites  admiration. 

The  morality  of  pity  is  often  preached  in  the  formula,  love  thy 
neighbor. 

Nietzsche  in  the  interests  of  his  attack  seizes  upon  the  word 
neighbor.  Not  only  does  he  demand,  with  Kierkegaard,  a  setting- 
aside  of  morality  for  the  sake  of  the  end  in  view,  but  he  is  exas¬ 
perated  that  the  true  nature  of  morality  should  be  held  to  consist 
in  a  consideration  of  the  immediate  results  of  our  actions,  to  which 
we  are  to  conform.  To  what  is  narrow  and  pettifogging  in  this  mor¬ 
ality  he  opposes  another,  which  looks  beyond  these  immediate  re¬ 
sults  and  aspires,  even  by  means  that  cause  our  neighbor  pain,  to 
more  distant  objects;  such  as  the  advancement  of  knowledge,  al¬ 
though  this  will  lead  to  sorrow  and  doubt  and  evil  passions  in  our 
neighbor.  We  need  not  on  this  account  be  without  pity,  but  we  may 
hold  our  pity  captive  for  the  sake  of  the  object. 

And  as  it  is  now  unreasonable  to  term  pity  unselfish  and  seek 
to  consecrate  it,  it  is  equally  so  to  hand  over  a  series  of  actions 
to  the  evil  conscience,  merely  because  they  have  been  maligned  as 
egotistical.  What  has  happened  in  recent  times  in  this  connection 
is  that  the  instinct  of  self-denial  and  self-sacrifice,  everything  al¬ 
truistic,  has  been  glorified  as  if  it  were  the  supreme  value  of 
morality. 


20 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


The  English  moralists,  who  at  present  dominate  Europe,  ex¬ 
plain  the  origin  of  ethics  in  the  following  way:  Unselfish  actions 
were  originally  called  good  by  those  who  were  their  objects  and 
who  benefited  by  them;  afterwards  this  original  reason  for  praising 
them  was  forgotten,  and  unselfish  actions  came  to  be  regarded  as 
good  in  themselves. 

According  to  a  statement  of  Nietzsche  himself  it  was  a  work 
by  a  German  author  with  English  leanings,  Dr.  Paul  Ree’s  Der  Ur- 
sprung  der  moralischen  Empfindungen  (Chemnitz,  1877),  which  pro¬ 
voked  him  to  such  passionate  and  detailed  opposition  that  he  had  to 
thank  this  book  for  the  impulse  to  clear  up  and  develop  his  own 
ideas  on  the  subject. 

The  surprising  part  of  it,  how^ever,  is  this:  Dissatisfaction  with 
his  first  book  caused  Ree  to  write  a  second  and  far  more  important 
work  on  the  same  subject — Die  Entstehung  des  Gewissens  (Berlin, 
1885) — in  which  the  point  of  view  offensive  to  Nietzsche  is  aban¬ 
doned  and  several  of  the  leading  ideas  advanced  by  the  latter 
against  Ree  are  set  forth,  supported  by  a  mass  of  evidence  taken 
from  various  authors  and  races  of  men. 

The  two  philosophers  were  personally  acquainted.  I  knew  them 
both,  but  had  no  opportunity  of  questioning  either  bn  this  matter. 
It  is  therefore  impossible  for  me  to  say  which  of  the  two  influenced 
the  other,  or  why  Nietzsche  in  1887  alludes  to  his  detestation  of 
the  opinions  put  forward  by  Ree  in  1877,  without  mentioning  how 
near  the  latter  had  come  to  his  own  view  in  the  work  published  two 
years  previously. 

Ree  had  already  adduced  a  number  of  examples  to  show  that 
the  most  diverse  peoples  of  antiquity  knew  no  other  moral  classi¬ 
fication  of  men  than  that  of  nobles  and  common  people,  powerful 
and  weak;  so  that  the  oldest  meaning  of  good  both  in  Greece  and 
Iceland  was  noble,  mighty,  rich. 

Nietzsche  builds  his  whole  theory  on  this  foundation.  His  train 
of  thought  is  this — 

The  critical  word  good  is  not  due  to  those  to  whom  goodness 
has  been  shown.  The  oldest  definition  was  this:  the  noble,  the 
mightier,  higher-placed  and  high-minded  held  themselves  and  their 
actions  to  be  good — of  the  first  rank — in  contradistinction  to  every¬ 
thing  low  and  low-minded.  Noble,  in  the  sense  of  the  class-con¬ 
sciousness  of  a  higher  caste,  is  the  primary  concept  from  which  de¬ 
velops  good  in  the  sense  of  spiritually  aristocratic.  The  lowly  are 
designated  as  bad  (not  evil).  Bad  does  not  acquire  its  unqualified 
depreciatory  meaning  till  much  later.  In  the  mouth  of  the  people 
it  is  a  laudatory  word;  the  German  word  schlecht  is  identical  with 
schlicht  (cf.  schlechtweg  and  schlechterdings) . 

The  ruling  caste  call  themselves  sometimes  simply  the  Mighty, 
'sometimes  the  Truthful;  like  the  Greek  nobility,  whose  mouthpiece 
Theognis  was.  With  him  beautiful,  good  and  noble  always  have  the 
sense  of  aristocratic.  The  aristocratic  moral  valuation  proceeds  from 
a  triumphant  affirmation,  a  yea-saying,  which  we  find  in  the  Homeric 
heroes:  We,  the  noble,  beautiful  and  brave — we  are  the  good,  the 
beloved  of  the  gods.  These  are  strong  men,  charged  with  force,  who 
delight  in  warlike  deeds,  to  whom,  in  other  words,  happiness  is 
activity. 

lit  is  of  course  unavoidable  that  these  nobles  should  misjudge 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


21 


and  despise  the  plebian  herd  they  dominate.  Yet  as  a  rule  there 
may  be  traced  in  them  a  pity  for  the  downtrodden  caste,  for  the 
drudge  and  beast  of  burden,  an  indulgence  towards  those  to  whom 
happiness  is  rest,  the  Sabbath  of  inactivity. 

Among  the  lower  orders,  on  the  other  hand,  an  image  of  the 
ruling  caste  distorted  by  hatred  and  spite  is  necessarily  current. 
In  this  distortion  there  lies  a  revenge.i 

In  opposition  to  the  aristocratic  valuation  (good=noble,  beau¬ 
tiful,  happy,  favored  by  the  gods)  the  slave  morality  then  is  this: 
The  wretched  alone  are  the  good;  those  who  suffer  and  are  heavy 
laden,  the  sick  and  the  ugly,  they  are  the  only  pious  ones.  On  the 
other  hand,  you,  ye  noble  and  rich,  are  to  all  eternity  the  evil,  the 
cruel,  the  insatiate,  the  ungodly,  and  after  death  the  damned.  Where¬ 
as  noble  morality  v/as  the  manifestation  of  great  self-esteem,  a 
continual  yea-saying,  slave  morality  is  a  continual  Nay,  a  Thou 
shalt  not,  a  negation. 

To  the  noble  valuation  good — bad  (bad=worthless)  corresponds 
the  antithesis  of  slave  morality,  good — evil.  And  who  are  the  evil 
in  this  morality  of  the  oppressed?  Precisely  the  same  who  in  the 
other  morality  were  the  good. 

Let  any  one  read  the  Icelandic  sagas  and  examine  the  morality 
of  the  ancient  Northmen,  and  then  compare  with  it  the  complaints 
of  other  nations  about  the  vikings’  misdeeds.  It  will  be  seen  that 
these  aristocrats,  whose  conduct  in  many  ways  stood  high,  were  no 
better  than  beasts  of  prey  in  dealing  with  their  enemies.  They  fell 
upon  the  inhabitants  of  Christian  shores  like  eagles  upon  lambs. 
One  may  say  they  followed  an  eagle  ideal.  But  then  we  cannot 
wonder  that  those  who  were  exposed  to  such  fearful  attacks  gath¬ 
ered  round  an  entirely  opposite  moral  ideal,  that  of  the  lamb. 

In  the  third  chapter  of  his  Utilitarianism,  Stuart  Mill  attempts 
to  prove  that  the  sense  of  justice  has  developed  from  the  animal 
instinct  of  making  reprisal  for  an  injury  or  a  loss.  In  an  essay  on 
“the  transcendental  satisfaction  of  the  feeling  of  revenge”  (supple¬ 
ment  to  the  first  edition  of  the  Werth  des  Lebens)  Eugen  Duhring 
has  followed  him  in  trying  to  establish  the  whole  doctrine  of  pun¬ 
ishment  upon  the  instinct  of  retaliation.  In  his  Phanomenologie  Ed¬ 
uard  von  Hartmann  shows  how  this  instinct  strictly  speaking  never 
does  more  than  involve  a  new  suffering,  a  new  offence,  to  gain  ex¬ 
ternal  satisfaction  for  the  old  one,  so  that  the  principle  of  requital 
can  never  be  any  distinct  principle. 

Nietzsche  makes  a  violent,  passionate  attempt  to  refer  the  sum 
total  of  false  modern  morality,  not  to  the  instinct  of  requital  or 
to  the  feeling  of  revenge  in  general,  but  to  the  narrower  form  of 
it  which  we  call  spite,  envy  and  rancune.  What  he  calls  slave  mor¬ 
ality  is  to  him  purely  spite-morality;  and  this  spite-morality  gave 
new  names  to  all  ideals.  Thus  impotence,  which  offers  no  reprisal, 
became  goodness;  craven  baseness  became  humility;  submission  to 
him  who  was  feared  became  obedience;  inability  to  assert  one’s  self 
became  reluctance  to  assert  one’s  self,  became  forgiveness,  love  of 
'"’Te’s  enemie’s.  Misery  became  a  distinction;  God  chastens  whom 
he  loves.  Or  it  became  a  preparation,  a  trial  and  a  training;  even 


t  Nietzsche  supports  his  hypothesis  by  derivations,  some  doubtful,  others 
incorrect;  but  their  value  is.  immaterial. 


22 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


more — something  that  will  one  day  be  made  good  with  interest,  paid 
back  in  bliss.  And  the  vilest  underground  creatures,  swollen  with 
hate  and  spite,  were  heard  to  say:  We,  the  good,  we  are  the  right¬ 
eous.  They  did  not  hate  their  enemies — they  hated  injustice,  ungod¬ 
liness.  What  they  hoped  for  was  not  the  sweets  of  revenge,  but 
the  victory  of  righteousness.  Those  they  had  -left  to  love  on  earth 
were  their  brothers  and  sisters  in  hatred,  whom  they  called  their 
brothers  and  sisters  in  love.  The  future  state  they  looked  for  was 
called  the  coming  of  their  kingdom,  of  God’s  kingdom.  Until  it  ar¬ 
rives  they  live  on  in  faith,  hope  and  love. 

If  Nietzsche’s  design  in  this  picture  was  to  strike  at  historical 
Christianity,  he  has  given  us — as  any  one  may  see — a  caricature 
in  the  spirit  and  style  of  the  eighteenth  century.  But  that  his  des¬ 
cription  hits  off  a  certam  type  of  the  apostles  of  spite-morality 
cannot  be  denied,  and  rarely  has  all  the  self-deception  that  may 
lurk  beneath  moral  preaching  been  more  vigorously  unmasked. 
(Compare  Beyond  Good  and  Evil  and  The  Genealogy  of  Morals.)' 


4 

Nietzsche  would  define  man  as  an  animal  that  can  make  and 
keep  promises. 

He  sees  the  real  nobility  of  man  in  his  capacity  for  promising 
something,  answering  for  himself  and  undertaking  a  responsibility — 
since  man,  with  the  mastery  of  himself  which  this  capacity  implies, 
necessarily  acquires  in  addition  a  mastery  over  external  circum¬ 
stances  and  over  other  creatures,  whose  will  is  not  so  lasting. 

The  consciousness  of  this  responsibility  is  what  the  sovereign 
man  calls  his  conscience. 

What,  then,  is  the  past  history  of  this  responsibility,  this  con¬ 
science?  It  is  a  long  and  bloody  one.  Frightful  means  have  been  used 
in  the  course  of  history  to  train  men  to  remember  what  they  have 
once  promised  or  willed,  tacitly  or  explicitly.  For  milleniums  man 
was  confined  in  the  strait-jacket  of  the  morality  of  custom,  and  by 
such  punishments  as  stoning,  breaking  on  the  wheel  or  burning, 
by  burying  the  sinner  alive,  tearing  him  asunder  with  horses,  throw¬ 
ing  him  into  the  water  v/ith  a  stone  on  his  neck  or  in  a  sack,  by 
scourging,  flaying  and  branding — by  all  these  means  a  long  memory 
for  what  he  had  promised  was  burnt  into  that  forgetful  animal, 
man;  in  return  for  which  he  was  permitted  to  enjoy  the  advantages 
of  being  a  member  of  society. 

According  to  Nietzsche’s  hypothesis,  the  consciousness  of  guilt 
originates  simply  as  consciousness  of  a  debt.  The  relation  of  con¬ 
tract  between  creditor  and  debtor,  which  is  as  old  as  the  earliest 
primitive  forms  of  human  intercourse  in  buying,  selling,  bartering, 
etc. — -this  is  the  relation  that  underlies  it.  The  debtor  (in  order  to 
inspire  confidence  in  his  promise  of  repayment)  pledges  something 
he  possesses:  his  liberty,  his  woman,  his  life;  or  he  gives  his  credi- 


1  Where  Nietzsche’s  words  are  quoted,  in  the  course  of  this  essay,  consid¬ 
erable  use  has  been  made  of  the  complete  English  translation  of  his  Works, 
edited  by  Dr.  Oscar  Levy. — Tr. 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


23 


tor  the  right  of  cutting  a  larger  or  smaller  piece  of  flesh  from  his 
body,  according  to  the  amount  of  the  debt.  (The  Roman  Code  of 
the  Twelve  Tables;  again  in  The  Merchant  of  Venice.) 

The  logic  of  this,  which  has  become  somewhat  strange  to  us, 
is  as  follows:  as  compensation  for  his  loss  the  creditor  is  granted 
a  kind  of  voluptuous  sensation,  the  delight  of  being  able  to  exercise 
his  power  upon  the  powerless. 

The  reader  may  find  violence  in  Ree  (op.  cit.,  p.  13  ff.)  for 
Nietzsche’s  dictum,  that  for  milleniums  this  was  the  view  of  man¬ 
kind:  The  sight  of  suffering  does  one  good. 

The  infliction  of  suffering  on  another  is  a  feast  at  which  the 
fortunate  one  swells  with  the  joy  of  power.  We  may  also  find  evi¬ 
dence  in  Ree  that  the  instincts  of  pity,  fairness  and  clemency,  which 
were  afterwards  glorified  as  virtues,  were  originally  regarded  al¬ 
most  everywhere  as  morally  worthless,  nay,  as  indications  of 
weakness. 

Buying  and  selling,  as  well  as  everything  psychologically  con¬ 
nected  therewith  and  older  than  any  form  of  social  organization, 
contain  the  germs,  in  Nietzsche’s  view,  of  compensation,  assessing, 
justice  and  duty.  Man  soon  became  proud  of  himself  as  a  being 
who  measures  values.  One  of  the  earliest  generalizations  was  this: 
Everything  has  its  price.  And  the  thought  that  everything  can  be 
paid  for  was  the  oldest  and  most  naive  canon  of  justice. 

Now  the  whole  of  society,  as  it  gradually  develops,  stands  in 
the  same  relation  to  its  members  as  the  creditor  to  the  debtor.  So¬ 
ciety  protects  its  members;  they  are  assured  against  the  state  of 
outlawry — on  condition  that  they  do  not  break  their  pledges  to  the 
community.  He  who  breaks  his  word — the  criminal — is  relegated 
to  the  outlawry  involved  in  exclusion  from  society. 

As  Nietzsche,  who  is  so  exclusively  taken  up  by  the  psychologi¬ 
cal  aspect,  discards  all  accessories  of  scholarship,  it  is  impossible  to 
examine  directly  the  accuracy  of  his  assertions.  The  historical  data 
will  be  found  collected  in  Ree’s  paragraphs  on  resentment  and  the 
sense  of  justice,  and  in  his  section  on  the  buying-off  of  revenge,  i.e., 
settlement  by  fines. 

Other  thinkers  besides  Nietzsche  (such  as  E.  von  Hartmann 
and  Ree)  have  combated  the  view  that  the  idea  of  justice  has  its 
origin  in  a  state  of  resentment,  and  Nietzsche  has  scarcely  brought 
to  light  any  fresh  and  convincing  proof;  but  what  is  characteristic 
of  him  as  a  writer  is  the  excess  of  personal  passion  with  which  he 
attacks  this  view,  obviously  because  it  is  connected  with  the  reas¬ 
oning  of  modern  democracy. 

In  many  a  modern  cry  for  justice  there  rings  a  note  of  plebian 
spite  and  envy.  Involuntarily  many  a  modern  savant  of  middle-class 
or  lower  middle-class  origin  has  attributed  an  unwarrantable  im¬ 
portance  to  the  atavistic  emotion's  prevalent  among  those  who  have 
been  long  oppressed:  hatred  and  rancour,  spite  and  thirst  for  re¬ 
venge. 

Nietzsche  does  not  occupy  himself  for  an  instant  v/ith  the  state 
of  things  in  which  revenge  does  duty  as  the  sole  punitive  justice; 
for  the  death  feud  is  not  a  manifestation  of  the  thrall’s  hatred  of 
his  master,  but  of  idea's  of  honor  among  equals.  He  dwells  exclusive¬ 
ly  on  the  contrast  between  a  ruling  caste  and  a  caste  of  slaves,  and 
shows  a  constantly  recurring  indignation  with  doctrines  which  have 


24 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


caused  the  progressive  among  his  contemporaries  to  look  with  in¬ 
dulgence  on  the  instincts  of  the  populace  and  with  suspicion  or 
hostility  on  master  spirits.  His  purely  personal  characteristic,  how¬ 
ever,  the  unphilosophical  and  temperamental  in  him,  is  revealed  in 
the  trait  that,  while  he  has  nothing  but  scorn  and  contempt  for  the 
down-trodden  class  or  race,  for  the  slave  morality  resulting  from 
its  suppressed  rancour,  he  positively  revels  in  the  ruling  caste’s 
delight  in  its  power,  in  the  atmosphere  of  healthiness,  freedom, 
frankness  and  truthfulness  in  which  it  lives.  Its  acts  of  tyranny  he 
defends  or  excuses.  The  image  it  creates  for  itself  of  the  slave 
caste  is  to  him  far  less  falsified  than  that  which  the  latter  forms 
of  the  master  caste. 

Nor  can  there  be  serious  question  of  any  real  injustice  com¬ 
mitted  by  this  caste.  For  there  is  no  such  thing  a^  right  or  wrong 
in  itself.  The  infliction  of  an  injury,  forcible  subjection,  exploitation 
or  annihilation  is  not  in  itself  a  wrong,  cannot  be  such,  since  life 
in  its  essence,  in  its  primary  functions,  is  nothing  but  oppression, 
exploitation  and  annihilation.  Conditions  of  justice  can  never  be 
anything  but  exceptional  conditions,  that  is,  as  limitations  of  the 
real  desire  of  life,  the  object  of  which  is  power. 

Nietzsche  replaces  Schopenhauer’s  Will  to  Life  and  Darwin’s 
Struggle  for  Existence  by  the  Will  to  Power,  In  hi.s  view  the  fight 
is  not  for  life — bare  existence — but  for  power.  And  he  has  a  great 
deal  to  say— somewhat  beside  the  mark — of  the  mean  and  paltry 
conditions  those  Englishmen  must  have  had  in  view  who  Set  up  the 
modest  conception  of  the  struggle  for  life.  It  appears  to  him  as  if 
they  had  imagined  a  world  in  which  everybody  is  glad  if  he  can 
only  keep  body  and  soul  together.  But  life  is  only  an  expression 
fcr  the  minimum.  In  itself  life  seeks,  not  self-Dreservation  alone,  but 
?eif-jncrease,  and  this  is'  precisely  the  “will  to  power.”  It  is  there¬ 
fore  obvious  that  there  is  no  difference  of  principle  between  the 
new  catchword  and  the  old;  for  the  struggle  for  existence  neces¬ 
sarily  leads  to  the  conflict  of  forces  and  the  fight  for  power.  Now 
a  system  of  justice,  seen  from  this  standpoint,  is  a  factor  in  the 
conflict  of  forces.  Conceived  as  supreme,  as  a  remedy  for  every 
kind  of  struggle,  it  would  be  a  principle  hostile  to  life  and  destruc¬ 
tive  of  the  future  and  progress  of  humanity. 

Something  similar  was  in  the  mind  of  Lassalle,  when  he  de¬ 
clared  that  the  standpoint  of  justice  was  a  bad  standpoint  in  the 
life  of  nations.  What  is  significant  of  Nietzsche  is  his  love  of  fight¬ 
ing  for  its  own  sake,  in  contrast  to  the  modern  humanitarian  view. 
To  Nietzsche  the  greatness  of  a  movement  is  to  be  measured  by  the 
sacrifices  it  demands.  The  hygiene  which  keeps  alive  millions  of 
weak  and  useless  beings  who  ought  rather  to  die,  is  to  him  no  true 
progress.  A  dead  level  of  mediocre  happiness  assured  to  the  largest 
possible  majority  of  the  miserable  creatures  we  nowadays  call  men, 
would  be  to  him  no  true  progress.  But  to  him,  as  to  Renan,  the 
rearing  of  a  human  species  higher  and  stronger  than  that  which 
now  surrounds  us  (the  “Superman”),  even  if  this  could  only  be 
achieved  by  the  sacrifice  of  masses  of  such  men  as  we  know,  would 
be  a  great,  a  real  progress.  Nietzsche’s  visions  put  forth  in  all 
seriousness,  of  the  training  of  the  Superman  and  his  assumption  of 
the  mastery  of  the  world,  bear  so  strong  a  resemblance  to  Renan’s 
dreams,  thrown  out  half  in  jest,  of  a  new  Asgard,  a  regular  manu- 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


25 


factory  of  ^sir  (Dialogues  philosophiques,  117),  that  we  can  scarce¬ 
ly  doubt  the  latter’s  influence.  But  what  Renan  wrote  under  the  over¬ 
whelming  impression  of  the  Paris  Commune,  and,  moreover,  in  the 
form  of  dialogue,  allowing  both  pro  and  con.  to  be  heard,  has 
crystallized  in  Nietzsche  into  dogmatic  conviction.  One  is  therefore 
surprised  and  hurt  to  find  that  Nietzsche  never  mentions  Renan 
otherwise  than  grudgingly.  He  scarcely  alludes  to  the  aristocratic 
quality  of  his  intellect,  but  he  speaks  with  repugnance  of  that 
respect  for  the  gospel  of  the  humble  which  Renan  everywhere  dis¬ 
closes,  and  which  is  undeniably  at  variance  with  his  hope  of  the 
foundation  of  a  breeding  establishment  for  supermen. 

Renan,  and  after  him  Taine,  turned  against  the  almost  religious 
feelings  which  were  long  entertained  in  the  new  Europe  towards 
the  first  French  Revolution.  Renan  regretted  the  Revolution  be¬ 
times  on  national  grounds;  Taine,  who  began  by  speaking  warmly 
of  it,  changed  his  mind  on  closer  inquiry.  Nietzsche  follows  in  their 
footsteps.  It  is  natural  for  modern  authors,  who  feel  themselves  to 
be  the  children  of  the  Revolution,  to  sympathize  with  the  men  of 
the  great  revolt;  and  certainly  the  latter  do  not  receive  their  due 
in  the  present  anti-revolutionary  state  of  feeling  in  Europe.  But 
these  authors,  in  their  dread  of  what  in  political  jargon  is  called 
Caesarism,  and  in  their  superstitious  belief  in  mass  movements,  have 
overlooked  the  fact  that  the  greatest  revolutionaries  and  liberators 
are  not  the  united  small,  but  the  few  great;  not  the  small  ungener¬ 
ous,  but  the  great  and  generous,  who  are  willing  to  bestow  justice 
and  well-being  and  intellectual  growth  upon  the  rest. 

There  are  two  classes  of  revolutionary  spirits;  those  who  feel 
instinctively  drawn  to  Brutus,  and  those  who  equally  instinctively 
are  attracted  by  Caesar.  Caesar  is  the  great  type;  neither  Frederick 
the  Great  nor  Napoleon  could  claim  more  than  a  part  of  his  quali¬ 
ties.  The  modern  poetry  of  the  ’forties  teems  with  songs  in  praise 
of  Brutus,  but  no  poet  has  sung  Caesar.  Even  a  poet  with  so  little 
love  for  democracy  as  Shakespeare  totally  failed  to  recognize  his 
greatness;  he  gave  us  a  pale  caricature  of  his  figure  and  followed 
Plutarch  in  glorifying  Brutus  at  his  expense.  Even  Shakespeare 
could  not  see  that  Caesar  placed  a  very  different  stake  on  the  ^ble 
of  life  from  that  of  his  paltry  murderer.  Caesar  was  descended  from 
Venus;  in  his  form  was  grace.  His  mind  had  the  grand  simplicity 
which  is  the  mark  of  the  greatest;  his  nature  was  nobility.  He, 
from  whom  even  today  all  supreme  power  takes  its  name,  had  every 
attribute  that  belongs  to  a  commander  and  ruler  of  the  highest 
rank.  Only  a  few  men  of  the  Italian  Renaissance  have  reached 
such  a  height  of  genius.  His  life  was  a  guarantee  of  all  the  pro¬ 
gress  that  could  be  accomplished  in  those  days.  Brutus’s  nature  was 
doctrine,  his  distinguishing  mark  the  narrowness  that  seeks  to 
bring  back  dead  conditions  and  that  sees  omens  of  a  call  in  the 
accident  of  a  name.  His  style  was  dry  and  laborious,  his  mind  un¬ 
fertile.  His  vice  was  avarice,  usury  his  delight.  To  him  the  pro¬ 
vinces  were  conquests  beyond  the  pale.  He  had  five  senators  of 
Salarnis  starved  to  death  because  the  town  could  not  pay.  And  on 
account  of  a  dagger-thrust,  which  accomplished  nothing  and  hin¬ 
dered  nothing  of  what  it  was  meant  to  hinder,  this  arid  brain  has 
been  made  a  sort  of  genius  of  liberty,  merely  because  men  have 


26 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


failed  to  understand  what  it  meant  to  have  the  strongest,  richest 
and  noblest  nature  invested  with  supreme  power. 

From  what  has  been  said  above  it  will  easily  be  understood 
that  Nietzsche  derives  justice  entirely  from  the  active  emotions, 
since  in  his  view  revengeful  feelings  are  always  low.  He  does  not 
dwell  on  this  point,  however.  Older  writers  had  seen  in  the  instinct 
of  retaliation  the  origin  of  punishment.  Stuart  Mill,  in  his  Utilitari¬ 
anism,  derived  justice  from  already  established  punitive  provisions 
(justum  from  jussum),  which  were  precautionary  measures,  not 
reprisals.  Ree,  in  his  book  on  the  Origin  of  Conscience,  defended  the 
kindred  proposition  that  punishment  is  not  a  consequence  of  the 
sense  of  justice,  but  vice  versa.  The  English  philosophers  in  general 
derive  the  bad  conscience  from  punishment.  The  value  of  the  latter 
is  supposed  to  consist  in  awakening  a  sense  of  guilt  in  the  de¬ 
linquent. 

Against  this  Nietzsche  enters  a  protest.  He  maintains  that  pun¬ 
ishment  only  hardens  and  benumbs  a  man;  in  fact,  that  the  ju¬ 
dicial  procedure  itself  prevents  the  criminal  from  regarding  his 
conduct  as  reprehensible;  since  he  is  made  to  witness  precisely  the 
same  kind  of  acts  as  those  he  has  committed— Spying,  entrapping, 
outwitting  and  torturing — all  of  which  are  sanctioned  when  exer¬ 
cised  against  him  in  the  cause  of  justice.  For  long  ages,  too,  no 
notice  whatever  was  taken  of  the  criminal’s  “sin”;  he  was  regarded 
as  harmful,  not  guilty,  and  looked  upon  as  a  piece  of  destiny;  and 
the  criminal  on  his  side  took  his  punishment  as  a  piece  of  destiny 
which  had  overtaken  him,  and  bore  it  with  the  same  fatalism  with 
which  the  Russians  suffer  to  this  day.  In  general  we  may  say  that 
punishment  tames  the  man,  but  does  not  make  him  “better.” 

The  bad  conscience,  then,  is  still  unexplained.  Nietzsche  pro¬ 
poses  the  following  brilliant  hypothesis:  The  bad  conscience  is  the 
deep-seated  morbid  condition  that  declared  itself  in  man  under  the 
stress  of  the  most  radical  change  he  has  ever  experienced — when 
he  found  himself  imprisoned  in  perpetuity  within  a  society  which 
was  inviolable.  All  the  strong  and  savage  instincts  such  as  adven¬ 
turousness,  rashness,  cunning,  rapacity,  lust  of  power,  which  till 
then  had  not  only  been  honored,  but  actually  encouraged,  were  sud¬ 
denly  put  down  as  dangerous,  and  by  degrees  branded  as  immoral 
and  criminal.  Creatures  adapted  to  a  roving  life  of  war  and  adven¬ 
ture  suddenly  saw  all  their  instincts  classed  as  worthless,  nay,  as 
forbidden.  An  immense  despondency,  a  dejection  without  parallel, 
then  took  possession  of  them.  And  all  these  instincts  that  were  not 
allowed  an  outward  vent,  turned  inwards  on  the  man  himself — feel¬ 
ings  of  enmity,  cruelty,  delight  in  change,  in  hazard,  violence,  per¬ 
secution,  destruction — and  thus  the  bad  conscience  originated. 

When  the  State  came  into  existence — not  by  a  social  contract, 
as  Rousseau  and  his  contemporaries  assumed — but  by  a  frightful 
tyranny  imposed  by  a  conquering  race  upon  a  more  numerous,  but 
unorganized  population,  then  all  the  latter’s  instinct  of  freedom 
turned  inwards;  its  active  force  and  will  to  power  were  directed 
against  man  himself.  And  this  was  the  soil  which  bore  such  ideals 
of  beauty  as  self-denial,  self-sacrifice,  unselfishness.  The  delight 
in  self-sacrifice  is  in  it’s  origin  a  phase  of  cruelty;  the  bad  con¬ 
science  is  a  will  for  self-abuse. 

Then  by  degrees  guilt  came  to  be  felt  as  a  debt,  to  the  past. 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


27 


to  the  ancestors ;  a  debt  that  had  to  be  paid  back  in  sacrifices —  at 
first  of  nourishment  in  its  crudest  sense — in  marks  of  honor  and 
in  obedience;  for  all  customs,  as  the  work  of  ancestors,  are  at  the 
same  time  their  commands.^  There  is  a  constant  dread  of  not  giving 
them  enough;  the  firstborn,  human  and  animal,  are  sacrificed  to 
them.  Fear  of  the  founder  grows  in  proportion  as  the  power  of  the 
race  increase’s.  Sometimes  he  becomes  transformed  into  a  god,  in 
which  the  origin  of  the  god  from  fear  is  clearly  seen. 

The  feeling  of  owing  a  debt  to  the  deity  steadily  grew  through 
the  centuries,  until  the  recognition  of  the  Christian  deity  as  uni¬ 
versal  god  brought  about  the  greatest  possible  outburst  of  guilty 
feeling.  Only  in  our  day  is  any  noticeable  diminution  of  this  sense 
of  guilt  to  be  traced;  but  where  the  consciousness  of  sin  reaches  its 
culminating  point,  there  the  bad  conscience  eats  its  way  like  a  can¬ 
cer,  till  the  sense- of  the  impossibility  of  paying  the  debt — atoning 
for  the  sin- — is  supreme  and  with  it  is  combined  the  idea  of  eternal 
punishment.  A  curse  is  now  imagined  to  have  been  laid  upon  the 
founder  of  the  race  (Adam),  and  all  sin  becomes  original  'sin.  In¬ 
deed,  the  evil  principle  is  attributed  to  Nature  herself  from  whose 
womb  man  has  sprung — until  we  arrive  at  the  paradoxical  expedient 
in  which  tormented  Christendom  has  found  a  temporary  consolation 
for  two  thousand  years:  God  offers  himself  for  the  guilt  of  man¬ 
kind,  pays  himself  in  his  cfwn  flesh  and  blood. 

What  has  here  happened  is  that  the  instinct  of  cruelty,  which 
has  turned  inwards,  has  become  self-torture,  and  all  man’s  animal 
instincts  have  been  reinterpreted  as  guilt  towards  God.  Every  Nay 
man  utters  to  his  nature,  to  his  real  being,  he  flings  out  as  a  Yea, 
an  affirmation  of  reality  applied  to  God’s  sanctity,  his  capacity  of 
judge  and  executioner,  and  in  the  next  place  to  eternity,  the  “Be¬ 
yond,”  pain  without  end,  eternal  punishment  in  hell. 

In  order  rightly  to  understand  the  origin  of  ascetic  ideals,  we 
must,  moreover,  consider  that  the  earliest  generations  of  spiritual 
and  contemplative  natures  lived  under  a  fearful  pressure  of  con¬ 
tempt  on  the  part  of  the  hunters  and  warriors.  The  unwarlike  ele¬ 
ment  in  them  was  despicable.  They  had  no  other  means  of  holding 
their  own  than  that  of  inspiring  fear.  This  they  could  only  do  by 
cruelty  to  themselves,  mortification  and  self-discipline  in  a  hermit’s 
life.  A's  priests,  soothsayers  and  sorcerers  they  then  struck  super¬ 
stitious  terror  into  the  masses.  The  ascetic  priest  is  the  unsightly 
larva  from  which  the  healthy  philosopher  has  emerged.  Under  the 
dominion  of  the  priests  our  earth  became  the  ascetic  planet;  a 
squalid  den  careering  through  space,  peopled  by  discontented  and 
arrogant  creatures,  who  were  disgusted  with  life,  abhorred  their 
globe  a’s  a  vale  of  tears,  and  who  in  their  envy  and  hatred  of  beauty 
and  joy  did  themselves  as  much  harm  as  possible. 

Nevertheless  the  self-contradiction  we  find  in  asceticism — 
life  turned  against  life — is  of  course  only  apparent.  In  reality  the 
ascetic  ideal  corresponds  to  a  decadent  life’s  profound  need  of  heal¬ 
ing  and  tending.  It  is  an  ideal  that  points  to  depression  and  ex¬ 
haustion;  by  its  help  life  struggles  against  death.  It  is  life’s  de¬ 
vice  for  self-preservation.  Its  necessary  antecedent,  is  a  morbid  con- 


1  Compare  Lassalle’s  theory  of  the  original  religion  of  Rome.  G.  Brandes 
“Ferdinand  Lassalle”  (London  and  New  York,  1911),  pp.  76  flf. 


28 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


dition  in  the  tamed  human  being,  a  disgust  with  life,  coupled  with 
the  desire  to  be  something  else,  to  be  somewhere  else,  raised  to  the 
highest  pitch  of  emotion  and  passion. 

The  ascetic  priest  is  the  embodiment  of  this  very  wish.  By 
its  power  he  keeps  the  whole  herd  of  dejected,  faint-hearted,  des¬ 
pairing  and  unsuccessful  creatures  fast  to  life.  The  very  fact  that 
he  himself  is  sick  makes  him  their  born  herdsman.  If  he  were 
healthy,  he  would  turn  away  with  loathing  from  all  this  eagerness 
to  re-label  weakness,  envy,  Pharisaism,  and  false  morality  as  virtue. 
But,  being  himself  sick,  he  is  called  upon  to  be  an  attendant  in  the 
great  hospital  of  sinners — ^the  Church.  He  is  constantly  occupied 
with  sufferers  who  seek  the  cause  of  their  pain  outside  themselves; 
he  teaches  the  patient  that  the  guilty' cause  of  his  pain  is  himself. 
Thus  he  diverts  the  rancour  of  the  abortive  man  and  makes  him 
less  harmful,  by  letting  a  great  part  of  his  resentment  recoil  on 
himself.  The  ascetic  priest  cannot  properly  be  called  a  physician; 
he  mitigates  suffering  and  invents  consolations  of  every  kind,  both 
narcotics  and  stimulants. 

The  problem  was  to  contend  with  fatigue  and  despair,  which 
had  seized  like  an  epidemic  upon  great  masses  of  men.  Many  reme¬ 
dies  were  tried.  First,  it  was  sought  to  depress  vitality  to  the  lowest 
degree:  not  to  will,  not  to  desire,  not  to  work,  and  ’so  on;  to  be¬ 
come  apathetic  (Pa’scaks  II  faut  s’abetir).  The  object  was  sanctifi¬ 
cation,  a  hypnotizing  of  all  mental  life,  a  relaxation  of  every  pur¬ 
pose,  and  consequently  freedom  from  pain.  In  the  next  place,  me¬ 
chanical  activity  was  employed  as  a  narcotic  against  states  of  de¬ 
pression;  the  “blessing  of  labour.^’  The  ascetic  priest,  who  has  to 
deal  chiefly  with  sufferers  of  the  poorer  classes,  reinterprets  the 
task  of  the  unfortunate  drudge  for  him,  making  him  see  in  it  a 
benefit.  Then  again,  the  prescription  of  a  little,  easily  accessible 
joy,  is  a  fovorite  remedy  for  depression;  such  as  gladdening  others, 
helping  them  in  love  of  one^s  neighbor.  Finally,  the  decisive  cure 
is  to  organize  all  the  'sick  into  an  immense  hospital,  to  found  a  con¬ 
gregation  of  them.  The  disinclination  that  accompanies  the  sense  of 
weakness  is  thereby  combated,  since  the  mass  feels  strong  in  its  in¬ 
ner  cohesion. 

But  the  chief  remedy  of  the  ascetic  priest  was,  after  all,  his 
reinterpretation  of  the  feeling  of  guilt  as  “sin.”  The  inner  suffer¬ 
ing  was  a  punishment.  The  sick  man  was  the  sinner.  Nietzsche  com¬ 
pares  the  unfortunate  who  receives  this  explanation  of  his  qualms 
with  a  hen  round  which  a  chalk  circle  has  been  drawn:  he  cannot 
get  out.  Wherever  we  look,  for  century  after  century,  we  see  the 
hypnotic  gaze  of  the  sinner,  staring — in  spite  of  Job — at  guilt  as 
the  only  cause  of  suffering.  Everywhere  the  evil  conscience  and 
the  scourge  and  the  hairy  shirt  and  weeping  and  gnashing  of 
teeth,  and  the  cry  of  “More  pain!  More  pain!”  Everything  served 
the  ascetic  ideal.  And  then  arose  epidemics  like  those  of  St.  Vitus's 
dance  and  the  flagellants,  witches'  hysteria  and  the  wholesale  de¬ 
lirium  of  extravagant  sects  (which  still  lingers  in  otherwise  bene¬ 
ficially  disciplined  bodies  such  as  the  Salvation  Army). 

The  ascetic  ideal  has  as  yet  no  real  assailants;  there  is  no 
decided  prophet  of  a  new  ideal.  Inasmuch  as  since  the  time  of  Cop¬ 
ernicus  science  ha’s  constantly  tended  to  deprive  man  of  his  earlier 
belief  in  his  own  importance,  its  influence  is  rather  favorable  to 
asceticism  than  otherwise.  At  present  the  only  real  enemies  and 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


29 


underminers  of  the  ascetic  ideal  are  to  be  found  in  the  charlatans 
of  that  ideal,  in  its  hypocritical  champions,  who  excite  and  maintain 
distrust  of  it. 

As  the  sensele’ssness  of  suffering  was  felt  to  be  a  curse,  the 
ascetic  ideal  gave  it  a  meaning;  a  meaning  which  brought  a  new 
flood  of  suffering  with  it,  but  which  was  better  than  none.  In  our 
day  a  new  ideal  is  in  process  of  formation,  which  sees  in  suffering 
a  condition  of  life,  a  condition  of  happiness,  and  which  in  the 
name  of  a  new  culture  combats  all  that  we  have  hitherto  called 
culture. 


6 

Among  Nietzsche's  works  there  is  a  strange  book  which  bears 
the  title.  Thus  Spake  Zarathustra.  It  consists  of  four  parts,  written 
during  the  years  1883-85,  each  part  in  about  ten  days,  and  conceived 
chapter  by  chapter  on  long  walks — “with  a  feeling  of  inspiration, 
as  though  each  sentence  had  been  shouted  in  my  ear,"  as  Nietzsche 
wrote  in  a  private  letter. 

The  central  figure  and  something  of  the  form  are  borrowed 
from  the  Persian  Avesta.  Zarathustra  is  the  mystical  founder  of  a 
religion  whom  we  usually  call  Zoroaster.  His  religion  is  the  religion 
of  purity;  his  wisdom  is  cheerful  and  dauntless,  as  that  of  one 
who  laughed  at  his  birth;  his  nature  is  light  and  flame.  The  eagle 
and  the  serpent,  who  share  his  mountain  cave,  the  proudest  and 
the  wisest  of  beasts,  are  ancient  Persian  symbols. 

This  work  contains  Nietzsche’s  doctrine  in  the  form,  so  to 
speak,  or  religion.  It  is  the  Koran,  or  rather  the  Avesta,  which  he 
was  impelled  to  leave — obscure  and  profound,  high-soaring  and 
remote  from  reality,  prophetic  and  intoxicated  with  the  future, 
filled  to  the  brim  with  the  personality  of  its  author,  who  again  is 
entirely  filled  with  himself. 

Among  modern  books  that  have  adopted  this  tone  and  employed 
this  symbolic  and  allegorical  style  may  be  mentioned  Mickiewicz’s 
Book  of  the  Polish  Pilgrims,  Slowacki’s  Anheli,  and  The  Words  of 
a  Believer,  by  Lamennais,  who  was  influenced  by  Mickiewicz.  A 
newer  work,  known  to  Nietzsche,  is  Carl  Spitteler’s  Prometheus  and 
Epimetheus  (1881).  But  all  these  books,  with  the  exception  of 
Spitteler’s,  are  biblical  in  their  language.  Zarathustra,  on  the  other 
hand,  is  a  book  of  edification  for  free  spirits. 

Nietzsche  himself  gave  this  book  the  highest  place  among  his 
writings.  I  do  not  share  this  view.  The  imaginative  power  which 
sustains  it  is  not  sufficiently  inventive,  and  a  certain  monotony  is 
inseparable  from  an  archaistic  presentment  by  means  of  types. 

But  it  is  a  good  book  for  those  to  have  recourse  to  who  are 
unable  to  master  Nietzsche's  purely  speculative  works;  it  contains 
all  his  fundamental  ideas  in  the  form  of  poetic  recital.  Its  merit  is 
a  style  that  from  the  first  word  to  the  last  is  full-toned,  sonorous 
and  powerful;  now  and  then  rather  unctuous  in  its  combative  judg¬ 
ments  and  condemnations;  always  expressive  of  self-joy,  nay,  self¬ 
intoxication,  but  rich  in  subtleties  as  in  audacities,  sure,  and  at 


30 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


times  great.  Behind  this  style  lies  a  mood  as  of  calm  mountain  air, 
so  light,  so  ethereally  pure,  that  no  infection,  no  bacteria  can  live 
in  it — no  noise,  no  stench,  no  dust  assails  it,  nor  does  any  path 
lead  up. 

Clear  sky  above,  open  sea  at  the  mountain’s  foot,  and  over  all 
a  heaven  of  light,  an  abyss  of  light,  an  azure  bell,  a  vaulted  silence 
above  roaring  waters  and  mighty ,  mountain-chains.  On  the  heights 
Zarathustra  is  alone  with  himself,  drawing  in  the  pure  air  in  full, 
deep  breaths,  alone  with  the  rising  sun,  alone  with  the  heat  of 
noon,  which  does  not  impair  the  freshness,  alone  with  the  voices  of 
the  gleaming  stars  at  night. 

A  good,  deep  book  it  is.  A  book  that  is  bright  in  its  joy  of 
life,  dark  in  its  riddles,  a  book  for  spiritual  mountain-climbers  a,nd 
dare-devils  and  for  the  few  who  are  practiced  in  the  great  contempt 
of  man  that  loathes  the  crowd,  and  in  the  great  love  of  man  that 
only  loathes  so  deeply  because  it  has  a  vision  of  a  higher,  braver 
humanity,  which  it  seeks  to  rear  and  train. 

Zarathustra  has  sought  the  refuge  of  his  cave  out  of  disgust 
with  petty  happiness  and  petty  virtues.  He  has  seen  that  men’s 
doctrine  of  virtue  and  contentment  makes  them  ever  smaller:  their 
goodness  is  in  the  main  a  wish  that  no  one  may  do  them  any  harm; 
therefore  they  forestall  the  others  by  doing  them  a  little  good.  This 
is  cowardice  and  is  called  virtue.  True,  they  are  at  the  same  time 
quite  ready  to  attack  and  injure,  but  only  those  who  are  once  for 
all  at  their  mercy  and  with  whom  it  is  safe  to  take  liberties.  This 
is  called  bravery  and  is  a  still  baser  cowardice.  But  when  Zarathus* 
tra  tries  to  drive  out  the  cowardly  devils  in  men,  the  cry  is  raised 
against  him,  “Zarathustra  is  godless.” 

He  is  lonely,  for  all  his  former  companions  have  become  apos¬ 
tates;  their  young  heart's  have  grown  old,  and  not  old  even,  only 
weary  and  slothful,  only  commonplace— -and  this  they  call  becom¬ 
ing  pious  again.  “Around  light  and  liberty  they  once  fluttered  like 
gnats  and  young  poets,  and  already  are  they  mystifiers,  and  mum- 
blers  and  mollj^coddles.”  They  have  understood  their  age.  They  chose 
their  time  well.  “For  now  do  all  night-birds  again  fly  abroad.  Now 
is  the  hour  of  all  that  dread  the  light.” 

Zarathustra  loathes  the  great  city  as  a  hell  for  anchorites’ 
thoughts.  “All  lust's  and  vices  are  here  at  home;  but  here  are  also 
the  virtuous,  much  appointable  and  appointed  virtue.  Much  appoint- 
able  virtue  with  scribe-fingers  and  hardy  sitting-flesh  and  waiting- 
flesh,  blessed  with  little  breast-stars  and  padded,  haunchless  daugh¬ 
ters.  Here  is  also  much  piety  and  much  devout  spittle-licking  and 
honey-slavering  before  the  God  of  hosts.  For  ‘from  on  high’  drip- 
peth  the  star  and  the  gracious  spittle;  and  upward  longeth  every 
starless  bosom.” 

And  Zarathustra  loathes  the  State,  loathes  it  as  Henrik  Ibsen 
did  and  more  profoundly  than  he. 

To  him  the  State  is  the  coldest  of  all  cold  monsters.  Its  funda¬ 
mental  lie  is  that  it  is  the  people.  No;  creative  'spirits  were  they 
who  created  the  people  and  gave  it  a  faith  and  a  love;  thus  they 
served  life;  every  people  is  peculiar  to  itself,  but  the  State  is  every¬ 
where  the  same.  The  State  is  to  Zarathustra  that  “where  the  slow 
suicide  of  all  is  called  life.”  The  State  is  for  the  many  too  many. 
Only  where  the  State  leaves  off  does  the  man  who  is  not  superfluous 
begin;  the  man  who  is  a  bridge  to  the  Superman. 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE  31 

From  'states  Zarathustra  has  fled  up  to  his  mountain,  into  his 
cave. 

In  forbearance  and  pity  lay  his  greatest  danger.  Rich  in  the 
little  lies  of  pity  he  dwelt  among  men. 

“Stung  from  head  to  foot  by  poisonous  flies  and  hollowed  out 
like  a  stone  by  many  drops  of  malice,  thus  did  I  sit  among  them, 
saying  to  myself:  Innocent  is  everything  petty  of  its  pettiness.  Es¬ 
pecially  they  who  call  themselves  the  good,  they  sting  in  all  inno¬ 
cence,  they  lie  in  all  innocence;  how  could  they  be  just  towards  me? 

“He  who  dwelleth  among  the  good,  him  teacheth  pity  to  lie. 
Pity  breedeth  bad  air  for  all  free  souls.  For  the  stupidity  of  the 
good  is  unfathomable. 

“Their  stiff  wise  men  did  I' call  wise,  not  stiff.- Their  grave¬ 
diggers  did  I  call  searchers  and  testers — thus  did  I  learn  to  con¬ 
found  speech.  The  grave-diggers  dig  for  themselves  disease's.  From 
old  refuse  arise  evil  exhalations.  Upon  the  mountains  one  should 
live.'" 

And  with  blessed  nostrils  he  breathes  again  the  freedom  of 
the  mountains.  His  nose  is  nov/  released  from  the  smell  of  all  that 
is  human.  There  sits  Zarathustra  with  old  broken  tables  of  the  law 
around  him  and  new  half-written  tables,  awaiting  his  hour;  the 
hour  when  the  lion  shall  come  with  the  flock  of  doves,  strength  in 
company  with  gentleness,  to  do  homage  to  him.  And  he  holds  out 
to  men  a  new  table,  upon  which  such  maxims  as  these  are  written — 

■Spare  not  thy  neighbor!  My  great  love  for  the  remotest  ones 
commands  it.  Thy  neighbor  is  something  that  must  be  surpassed. 

Say  not:  I  will  do  unto  others  as  I  would  they  should  do  unto 
me.  What  thou,  doest,  that  can  no  man  do  to  thee  again.  There  is 
no  requital. 

Do  not  believe  that  thou  mayst  not  rob.  A  right  which  thou 
canst  seize  upon,  'shalt  thou  never  allow  to  be  given  thee. 

Beware  of  good  men.  They  never  speak  the  truth.  For  all  that 
they  call  evil — the  daring  venture,  the  prolonged  distrust,  the  cruel 
Nay,  the  deep  disgust  with  men,  the  will  and  the  power  to  cut  into 
the  quick — all  this  must  be  present  where  a  truth  is  to  be  born. 

All  the  past  is  at  man’s  mercy.  But,  this  being  so,  it  might 
happen  that  the  rabble  became  master  and  drowned  all  time  in  its 
shallow  water's,  or  that  a  tyrant  usurped  it  all.  Therefore  we  need 
a  new  nobility,  to  be  the  adversary  of  all  rabble  and  all  tyranny, 
and  to  Inscribe  on  new  tables  the  word  “noble.”  Certainly  not  a 
nobility  that  can  be  bought,  nor  a  nobility  whose  virtue  is  love 
of  country.  No,  teaches  Zarathustra,  exiles  shall  ye  be  from  your 
fatherlands  and  forefatherlands.  Not  the  land  of  your  fathers  shall 
ye  love,  but  your  children’s  land.  This  love  is  the  new  nobility — 
love  of  that  new  land,  the  undiscovered,  far-off  country  in  the  re¬ 
motest  sea.  To  your  children  shall  ye  make  amends  for  the  mis¬ 
fortune  of  being  your  fathers’  children.  Thus  shall  ye  redeem  all 
the  past. 

Zarathustra  is  full  of  lenity.  Others  have  said:  Thou  shalt  not 
commit  adultery.  Zarathustra  teaches:  The  honest  should  say  to 
each  other,  “Let  us  see  whether  our  love  continue;  let  us  fix  a 
term,  that  we  may  find  out  whether  we  desire  a  longer  term.” 
What  cannot  be  bent,  will  be  broken.  A  woman  'said  to  Zarathustra, 
“Indeed,  I  broke  the  marriage,  but  first  did  the  marriage  break  me.’* 


82 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


Zarathustra  is  without  mercy.  It  has  been  said:  Push  not  a 
leaning  wagon.  But  Zarthustra  says:  That  which  is  ready  to  fall, 
shall  ye  also  push.  All  that  belongs  to  our  day  is  falling  and  de¬ 
caying.  No  one  can  preserve  it,  but  Zarathustra  will  even  help  it 
to  fall  faster. 

Zarathustra  loves  the  brave.  But  not  the  bravery  that  take's  up 
every  challenge.  There  is  often  more  bravery  in  holding  back  and 
passing  by  and  reserving  one’s  self  for  a  worthier  foe.  Zarathustra 
does  not  teach:  Ye  shall  love  your  enemies,  but:  Ye  shall  not  en¬ 
gage  in  combat  with  enemies  ye  despise. 

Why  so  hard?  men  cry  to  Zarathustra.  He  replies:  Why  so  hard, 
once  "Said  the  charcoal  to  the  diamond;  are  we  not  near  of  kin?  The 
creators  are  hard.  Their  blessedness  it  is  to  press  their  hand  upon 
future  centuries  as  upon  wax. 

No  doctrine  revolts  Zarathustra  more  than  that  of  the  vanity 
and  senselessness  of  life.  This  is  in  hi's  eyes  ancient  babbling,  old 
wives*  babbling.  And  the  pessimists  who  sum  up  life  with  a  balance 
of  aversion,  and  assert  the  badness  of  existence,  are  the  objects  of 
his  positive  loathing.  He  prefers  pain  to  annihilation. 

The  same  extravagant  love  of  life  is  expressed  in  the  Hymn  to 
Life,  written  by  his  friend,  Lou  von  Salome,  which  Nietzsche  set  for 
chorus  and  orchestra.  We  read  here — 

“So  truly  loves  a  friend  his  friend 
As  I  love  thee,  O  Life  in  myst’ry  hidden! 

If  joy  or  grief  to  me  thou  send; 

If  loud  I  laugh  or  else  to  weep  am  bidden, 

Yet  love  I  thee  with  all  thy  changeful  faces; 

And  should^st  thou  doom  me  to  depart, 

So  would  I  tear  myself  from  thy  embraces, 

As  comrade  from  a  comrade’s  heart.” 


And  the  poem  concludes — 

“And  if  thou  hast  now  left  no  bliss  to  crown  me. 

Lead  on!  thou  hast  thy  sorrow  still!”  i 

When  Achilles  cho’se  to  be  a  day-laborer  on  earth  rather  than 
a  king  in  the  realm  of  the  shades,  the  expression  was  a  weak  one  in 
comparison  with  this  passionate  outburst,  which  paradoxically 
thirsts  even  for  the  cup  of  pain. 

Eduard  von  Hartmann  believes  in  a  beginning  and  end  of  the 
‘‘world  process.”  He  concludes  that  no  eternity  can  lie  behind  ns; 
otherwise  everything  pos'sible  must  already  have  happened,  which — 
according  to  his  contention — is  not  the  case.  In  sharp  contrast  to 
him,  on  this  point  as  on  others,  Zarathustra  teaches,  with,  be  it 
said,  a  somewhat  shallow  mysticism — which  is  derived  from  the 
ancient  Pythagoreans*  idea  of  the  circular  course  of  history  and  is 


1  Translated  by  Herman  Scheffauer.  Text  and  pianoforte  score  are  given  in 
'Vol.  XVII  (Eccc  Homo)  of  the  English  edition  of  Nietzsche’s  works. 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


33 


influenced  by  Cohelet’s  Hebrew  philosophy  of  life — the  eternal  re¬ 
currence;  that  is  to  say,  that  all  things  eternally  return  and  we  our¬ 
selves  with  them,  that  we  have  already  existed  an  infinite  number 
of  times  and  all  things  with  us.  The  great  clock  of  the  universe  is 
to  him  an  hour-glass,  which  is  constantly  turned  and  runs  out  again 
and  again.  This  is  the  direct  antithesis  of  Hartmann’s  doctrine  of 
universal  destruction,  and  curiously  enough  it  was  put  forward 
at  about  the  same  time  by  two  French  thinkers:  by  Blanqui  in 
L’Eternite  par  les  Astres  (18.71),  and  by  Gustave  Le  Bon  in 
L’Homme  et  les  Societes  (1881). 

At  his  death  Zarathustra  will  say:  Now  I  disappear  and  die; 
in  a  moment  I  shall  be  nothing,  for  the  soul  is  mortal  as  the  body; 
but  the  complex  of  causes  in  which  I  am  involved  will  return,  and 
it  will  continually  reproduce  me. 

At  the  clgse  of  the  third  part  of  Zarathustra  there  is  a  chapter 
headed  *‘The  Second  Dance  Song.”  Dance,  in  Nietzsche’s  language, 
is  always  an  expression  for  the  lofty  lightness  of  mind,  which  is 
exalted  above  the  gravity  of  earth  and  above  all  stupid  seriousness. 
This  song,  extremely  remarkable  in  its  language,  is  a  good  specimen 
of  the  style  of  the  work,  when  it  soars  into  its  highest  flights  of 
poetry.  Life  appears  to  Zarathustra  as  a  woman;  she  strikes  her 
castanets  and  he  dances  with  her,  flinging  out  all  his  wrath  with 
life  and  all  his  love  of  life. 

‘‘Lately  looked  I  into  thine  eye's,  0  Life!  Gold  saw  I  gleaming 
in  thy  night-eye — ^my  heart  stood  still  with  the  joy  of  it. 

“A  golden  skiff  saw  I  gleaming  upon  shadowy  waters,  a  sink¬ 
ing,  drinking,  reblinking,  golden  swinging-skill. 

“At  my  foot,  dancing-mad,  didst  thou  cast  a  glance,  a  laughing, 
questioning,  melting,  swinging-glance. 

“Twice  only  did  thy  little  hands  strike  the  castanets — then  was 
my  foot  swinging  in  the  madnes’S  of  the  dance. 


•  •  •••••  •• 

“I  fear  thee  near,  I  love  thee  far;  thy  flight  allureth  me,  thy 
seeking  secureth  me;  I  suffer,  but  for  thee,  what  would  I  not  gladly 
bear !  '  ‘  * 

“For  thee,  whose  coldness  inflameth,  whose  hatred  misleadeth, 
whose  flight  enchaineth,  whose  mockery  pleadeth! 

“Who  would  not  hate  thee,  thou  great  bindress,  inwindress, 
temptress,  seekress,  findress!  Who  would  not  love  thee,  thou  in¬ 
nocent,  impatient,  wind-swift,  child-eyed  sinner!’* 

In  this  dialogue  between  the  dancers.  Life  and  her  lover,  these 
words  occur:  0  Zarathustra,  thou  art  far  from  loving  me  as  dearly 
as  thou  sayest;  thou  art  not  faithful  enough  to  me.  There  is  an  old, 
heavy  booming-clock;  it  boometh  by  night  up  to  thy  cave.  When 
thou  hearest  this  clock  at  midnight,  then  dost  thou  think  until  noon 
that  soon  thou  wilt  forsake  me. 

And  then  follows,  in  conclusion,  the  song  of  the  old  midnight 
clock.  But  in  the  fourth  part  of  the  work,  in  the  section  called  “The 
Sleepwalker’s  Song,”  this  short  strophe  is  interpreted  line  by  line;  in 
form  half  like  a  mediaeval  watchman’s  chant,  half  like  the  hymn 
of  a  mystic,  it  contains  the  mysterious  spirit  of  Nietz’sche’s  esoteric 
doctrine  concentrated  in  the  shortest  formula — 


34 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


Midnight  is  drawing  on,  and  as  mysteriously,  as  terribly,  and 
as  cordially  as  the  midnight  bell  speaketh  to  Zarathustra,  so  calleth 
he  to  the  higher  men:  At  midnight  many  a  thing  is  heard  which 
may  not  be  heard  by  day;  and  the  midnight  speaketh:  O  man,  take 
heed! 

Whither  hath  time  gone?  Have  I  not  sunk  into  deep  well's? 
The  world  sleepeth.  And  suddering  it  asketh:  Who  is  to  be  master 
of  the  world?  What  saith  the  deep  midnight? 

The  bell  boometh,  the  wood-worm  burroweth,  the  heart-worm 
gnaweth:  Ah!  the  world  is  deep. 

But  the  old  bell  is  like  a  sonorous  instrument;  all  pain  hath 
bitten  into  its  heart,  the  pain  of  fathers  and  forefathers;  and  all 
joy  hath  set  it  swinging,  the  joy  of  fathers  and  forefathers — there 
riseth  from  the  bell  an  odor  of  eternity,  a  rosy-blessed,  golden-wine 
perfume  of  old  happiness,  and  this  song:  The  world  is  deep,  and 
deeper  than  the  day  had  thought. 

I  am  too  pure  for  the  rude  hands  of  the  day.  The  purest  shall 
be  masters  of  the  world,  the  unacknowledged,  the  strongest,  the 
midnight-souls,  who  are  brighter  and  deeper  than  any  day.  Deep  is 
its  woe. 

But  joy  goeth  deeper  than  heart's  grief.  For  grief  saith:  Break 
my  heart!  Fly  away,  my  pain!  Woe  saith:  Begone! 

But,  ye  higher  men,  'said  ye  ever  Yea  to  a  single  joy,  then  said 
ye  also  Yea  unto  all  woe.  For  joy  and  woe  are  linked,  enamored, 
inseparable.  And  all  beginneth  again,  all  is  eternal.  All  joys  desire 
eternity,  deep,  deep,  eternity. 

This,  then,  is  the  midnight  song — 

“Oh  Mensch!  Gieb  Acht! 

Was  spricht  die  tiefe  Mitternacht? 

‘Ich  schlief,  ich  schlief — 

Aus  tiefem  Traum  bin  ich  erwacht: — 

Die  Welt  ist  tief, 

Und  tiefer  als  der  Tag  gedacht. 

Tief  ist  ihr  Weh— 

Lust — ^tiefer  noch  als  Herzeleid: 

Weh  spricht:  Vergeh! 

Doch  alle  Lust  will  Ewigkeit — 

— will  tiefe,  tiefe  Ewigkeit!’’ 

« 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


35 


6 

Such  is  he,  then,  this  warlike  mystic,  poet  and  thinker,  this 
immoralist  who  is  never  tired  of  preaching.  Coming  to  him  fresh 
from  the  English  philosophers,  one  feels  transported  to  another 
world.  The  Englishmen  are  all  patient  spirits,  whose  natural  bent 
is  towards  the  accumulation  and  investigation  of  a  mass  of  small 
facts  in  order  thereby  to  discover  a  law.  The  best  of  them  are  Aris¬ 
totelian  minds.  Few  of  them  fascinate  us  personally  or  seem  to  be 
of  very  complex  personality.  Their  influence  lies  more  in  what  they 
do  than  in  what  they  are.  Nietzsche,  on  the  other  hand,  like  Schop¬ 
enhauer,  is  a  guesser,  a  seer,  an  artist,  less  interesting  in  what  he 
does  than  in  what  he  is. 

Little  as  he  feels  himself  a  German,  he  neverthless  continues 
the  metaphysical  and  intuitive  tradition  of  German  philosophy  and 
has  the  German  thinker's  profound  dislike  of  any  utilitarian  point 
of  view.  In  his  passionate  aphoristical  form  he  is  unquestionably 
original;  in  the  substance  of  his  thought  he  reminds  one  here  and 
there  of  many  another  writer,  both  of  contemporary  Germany  and 
of  France;  but  he  evidently  regards  it  as  perfectly  absurd  that  he 
should  have  to  think  a  contemporary  for  anything,  and  storms  like 
a  German  at  all  those  who  resemble  him  in  any  point. 

I  have  already  mentioned  how  strongly  he  reminds  one  of  Ernest 
Renan  in  his  conception  of  culture  and  in  his  hope  of  an  aristocracy 
of  intellect  that  could  seize  the  dominion  of  the  world.  Nevertheless 
he  has  not  one  appreciative  word  to  say  for  Renan. 

I  have  also  alluded  to  the  fact  that  Eduard  von  Hartmann  was 
his  predecessor  in  his  fight  against  Schopenhauer’s  morality  of 
pity.  In  this  author,  whose  talent  is  indisputable,  even  though  his 
importance  may  not  correspond  with  his  extraordinary  reputation, 
Nietzsche,  with  the  uncritical  injustice  of  a  German  university  pro¬ 
fessor,  would  only  see  a  charlatan.  Hartmann’s  nature  is  of  heavier 
stuff  than  Nietzsche’s.  He  is  ponderous,  self-complacent,  funda¬ 
mentally  Teutonic,  and,  in  contrast  to  Nietzsche,  entirely  unaffected 
by  French  spirit  and  southern  sunshine.  But  there  are  points  of  re¬ 
semblance  between  them,  which  are  due  to  historical  conditions  in 
the  Germany  that  reared  them  both. 

In  the  first  place,  there  was  something  analogous  in  their  posi¬ 
tions  in  life,  since  both  as  artillerymen  had  gone  through  a  similar 
schooling;  and  in  the  second  place,  in  their  culture,  inasmuch  as  the 
starting-point  of  both  is  Schopenhauer  and  both  neverthless  retain  a 
great  respect  for  Hegel,  thus  uniting  these  two  hostile  brothers  in 
their  veneration.  They  are  further  in  agreement  in  their  equally 
estranged  attitude  to  Christian  piety  and  Christian  morality,  as 
well  as  in  their  contempt,  so  characteristic  of  modern  Germany, 
for  every  kind  of  democracy. 

Nietzsche  resembles  Hartmann  in  his  attacks  on  socialists  and 
anarchists,  with  the  difference  that  Hartmann’s  attitude  is  here 
more  that  of  the  savant,  while  Nietzsche  has  the  bad  taste  to  delight 
in  talking  about  “anarchist  dogs,”  expressing  in  the  same  breath 
his  own  loathing  of  the  State.  Nietzsche  further  resembles  Hart- 


36 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


mann  in  his  repeated  demonstration  of  the  impossibility  of  the  ideals 
of  equality  and  of  peace,  since  life  is  nothing  but  inequality  and 
war:  “What  is  good?  To  be  brave  is  good.  I  do  not  say,  the  good 
cause  sanctifies  war,  but  the  good  war  sanctifies  every  cause.”  Like 
his  predecessor,  he  dwells  on  the  necessity  of  the  struggle  for  power 
and  on  the  supposed  value  of  war  to  culture. 

In  both  these  authors,  comparatively  independent  as  they  are, 
the  one  a  mystical  natural  philosopher,  the  other  a  mystical  immor- 
alist,  is  reflected  the  all-dominating  militarism  of  the  new  German 
Empire.  Hartmann  approaches  on  many  points  the  German  snobbish 
national  feeling.  Nietzsche  is  opposed  to  it  on  principle,  as  he  is 
to  the  statesman  “who  has  piled  up  for  the  Germans  a  new  tower 
of  Babel,  a  monster  in  extent  of  territory  and  power  and  for  that 
reason  called  great,”  but  something  of  Bismarck’s  spirit  broods  never¬ 
theless  over  the  works  of  both.  As  regards  the  question  of  war,  the 
only  difference  between  them  is  that  Nietzsche  does  not  desire  war 
for  the  sake  of  a  fantastic  redemption  of  the  world,  but  in  order 
that  manliness  may  not  become  extinct. 

In  his  contempt  for  woman  and  his  abuse  of  her  efforts  for 
emancipation  Nietzsche  again  agrees  with  Hartmann,  though  only 
in  so  far  as  both  here  recall  Schopenhauer,  whose  echo  Hartmann 
is  here  only  a  moralizing  doctrinaire  with  a  somewhat  offensive 
dash  of  pedantry,  one  can  trace  beneath  Nietzsche’s  attacks  on  the 
female  sex  that  subtle  sense  of  woman’s  dangerousness  which  points 
to  painful  experience.  He  does  not  seem  to  have  known  many  wom¬ 
en,  but  those  he  did  know,  he  evidently  loved  and  hated,  but  above 
all  despised.  Again  and  again  he  returns  to  the  unfitness  of  the 
free  and  great  spirit  for  marriage.  In  many  of  these  utterances  there 
is  a  strongly  personal  note,  especially  in  those  which  persistently 
assert  the  necessity  of  a  solitary  life  for  a  thinker.  But  as  regards 
the  less  personal  arguments  about  woman,  old-world  Germany  here 
speaks  through  the  mouth  of  Nietzsche,  as  through  that  of  Hart¬ 
mann;  the  Germany  whose  women,  in  contrast  to  those  of  France 
and  England,  have  for  centuries  been  relegated  to  the  domestic  and 
strictly  private  life.  We  may  recognize  in  these  German  writers 
generally  that  they  have  an  eye  for  the  profound  antagonism  and 
perpetual  war  between  the  sexes,  which  Stuart  Mill  neither  saw 
nor  understood.  But  the  injustice  to  man  and  the  rather  tame  fair¬ 
ness  to  woman,  in  which  Mill’s  admirable  emancipatory  attempt  oc¬ 
casionally  results,  is  nevertheless  greatly  to  be  preferred  to  Nietz¬ 
sche’s  brutal  unfairness,  which  asserts  that  in  our  treatment  of 
women  we  ought  to  return  to  “the  vast  common  sense  of  old  Asia.” 

Finally,  in  his  conflict  with  pessimism  Nietzsche  had  Eugen 
Duhring  (especially  in  his  Werth  des  Lebens)  as  a  forerunner,  and 
this  circumstance  seems  to  have  inspired  him  with  so  much  ill-will, 
so  much  exasperation  indeed,  that  in  a  polemic  now  open,  now  dis¬ 
guised,  he  calls  Duhring  his  ape.  Duhring  is  a  horror  to  him  as  a 
plebeian,  as  an  Antisemite,  as  the  apostle  of  revenge,  and  as  the 
disciple  of  the  Englishmen  and  of  Comte;  but  Nietzsche  has  not  a 
word  to  say  about  Duhring’s  very  remarkable  qualities,  to  which 
such  epithets  as  these  do  not  apply.  But  we  can  easily  understand, 
taking  Nietzsche’s  own  destiny  into  consideration,  that  Duhring, 
the  blind  man,  the  neglected  thinker  who  despises  official  scholars, 
the  philosopher  who  teaches  outside  the  universities,  who,  in  spite 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


37 


of  being  so  little  pampered  by  life,  loudly  proclaims  his  love  of 
life — should  appear  to  Nietzsche  as  a  caricature  of  himself.  This 
was,  however,  no  reason  for  his  now  and  then  adopting  Duhring"^ 
abusive  tone.  And  it  must  be  confessed  that,  much  as  Nietzsche 
wished  to  be  what,  for  that  matter,  he  was — a  Polish  szlachcic,  a 
European  man  of  the  world  and  a  cosmopolitan  thinker — in  one 
respect  he  always  remained  the  German  professor:  in  the  rude 
abuse  in  which  his  uncontrolled  hatred  of  rivals  found  vent;  and, 
after  all,  his  only  rivals  as  a  modern  German  philosopher  were 
Hartmann  and  Duhring. 

It  is  strange  that  this  man,  who  learned  such  an  immense 
amount  from  French  moralists  and  psychologists  like  La  Roche¬ 
foucauld,  Chamfort,  and  Stendhal,  was  able  to  acquire  so  hfctle  of 
the  self-control  of  their  form.  He  was  never  subjected  to  the  res¬ 
traint  which  the  literary  tone  of  France  imposes  upon  every  writer 
as  regards  the  mention  and  exhibition  of  his  own  person.  For  a 
long  time  he  seems  to  have  striven  to  discover  himself  and  to  be¬ 
come  completely  himself.  In  order  to  find  himself  he  crept  into  his 
solitude,  as  Zarathustra  into  his  cave.  By  the  time  he  had  succeeded 
in  arriving  at  full  Independent  development  and  felt  the  rich  flow 
of  individual  thought  within  him,  he  had  lost  all  external  standards 
for  measuring  his  own  value;  all  bridges  to  the  world  around  him 
were  broken  down.  The  fact  that  no  recognition  came  from  without 
only  aggravated  his  self-esteem.  The  fir^t  glimmer  of  recognition 
further  exalted  this  self  esteem.  At  last  it  closed  above  his  head  and 
darkened  this  and  commanding  intellect. 

As  he  stands  disclosed  in  his  incompleted  life-work,  he  is  a 
writer  well  worth  studying. 

My  principal  reason  for  calling  attention  to  him  is  that  Scandi¬ 
navian  literature  appears  to  me  to  have  been  living  quite  long 
enough  on  the  ideas  that  were  put  forward  and  discussed  in  the 
last  decade.  It  looks  as  though  the  power  of  conceiving  great  ideas 
were  on  the  wane,  and  even  as  though  receptivity  for  them  were 
fast  vanishing;  people  are  still  busy  with  the  same  doctrines,  certain 
theories  of  heredity,  a  little  Darwinism,  a  little  emancipation  of 
woman,  a  little  morality  of  happiness,  a  little  freethought,  a  little 
worship  of  democracy,  etc.  And  a’s  to  the  culture  of  our  “cultured” 
people,  the  level  represented  approximately  by  the  Revue  des  Deux 
Mondes  threatens  to  become  the  high-water  mark  of  taste.  It  does 
not  seem  yet  to  have  dawned  on  the  best  among  us  that  the  finer, 
the  only  true  culture  begins  on  the  far  side  of  the  Revue  des  Deux 
Mondes  in  the  great  personality,  rich  in  ideas. 

The  intellectual  development  of  Scandinavia  has  advanced  com¬ 
paratively  rapidly  in  its  literature.  We  have  seen  great  authors  rise 
above  all  orthodoxy,  though  they  began  by  being  perfectly  simple- 
hearted  believers.  This  is  very  honorable,  -but  in  the  case  of  those 
who  cannot  rise  higher  still,  it  is  nevertheless  rather  meagre.  In  the 
course  of  the  ’seventies  it  became  clear  to  almost  all  Scandinavian 
authors  that  it  would  no  longer  do  to  go  on  writing  on  the  basis 
of  the  Augsburg  Confession.  Some  quietly  dropped  it,  others  opposed 
it  more  or  less  noisily;  whilst  most  of  those  who  abandoned  it  en¬ 
trenched  themselves  against  the  public,  and  to  some  extent  against 
tho  bad  conscience  of  their  own  childhood,  behind  the  established 


38 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


Protestant  morality;  now  and  then,  indeed,  behind  a  good,  everyday 
soup-stock  morality — I  call  it  thus  because  so  many  a  soup  has  been 
served  from  it. 

But  be  that  as  it  may,  attacks  om  existing  prejudices  and  de¬ 
fence  of  existing  institutions  threaten  at  present  to  sink  into  one 
and  the  same  commonplace  familiarity. 

Soon,  I  believe,  we  shall  once  more  receive  a  lively  impression 
that  art  cannot  rest  content  with  ideas  and  ideals  for  the  average 
mediocrity,  any  more  than  with  remnants  of  the  old  catechisms;  but 
that  great  art  demands  intellects  that  stand  on  a  level  with  the 
most  individual  personalities  of  contemporary  thought,  in  exception¬ 
ality,  in  independence  in  defiance  and  in  aristocratic  self-supremacy. 


(December,  1899) 


MORE  than  ten  years  have  gone  by  since  I  first  called  atten¬ 
tion  to  Friedrich  Nietzsche.  My  essay  on  “Aristocratic  Radicalism” 
was  the  first  study  of  any  length  to  be  devoted,  in  the  whole  of 
Europe,  to  th|s  man,  whose  name  has  since  flown  round  the  world 
and  is  at  this  moment  one  of  the  most  famous  among  our  contem¬ 
poraries.  This  thinker,  then  almost  unknown  and  seldom  mentioned, 
became,  a  few  years  later,  the  fashionable  philosopher  in  every 
country  of  Europe,  and  this  ,while  the  great  man,  to  whose  lot  had 
suddenly  fallen  the  universal  fame  he  had  so  passionately  desired, 
lived  on  without  a  suspicion  of  it  all,  a  living  corpse  cut  off  from 
the  world  by  incurable  insanity. 

Beginning  with  his  native  land,  which  so  long  as  he  retained 
his  powers  never  gave  him  a  sign  of  recognition,  his  writings  have 
now  made  their  way  in  every  country.  Even  in  France,  usually  so 
loth  to  admit  foreign,  and  especially  German,  influence,  his  char¬ 
acter  and  his  doctrine  have  been  studied  and  expounded  again  and 
again.  In  Germany,  as  well  as  outside  it,  a  sort  of  school  has  been 
formed,  which  appeals  to  his  authority  and  not  unfrequently  com¬ 
promises  him,  or  rather  itself,  a  good  deal.  The  opposition^to  him 
is  conducted  sometimes  (as  by  Ludwig  Stein)  on  serious  and  scien¬ 
tific  lines  although  from  narrow  pedagoguic  premises;  sometimes 
(as  by  Herr  Max  Nordau)  with  sorry  weapons  and  with  the  assumed 
superiority  of  presumptuous  mediocritj^. 

Interesting  articles  and  books  on  Nietzsche  have  been  written 
by  Peter  Gast  and  Lou  von  salome  in  German  and  by  Henri  Lichten- 
berger  in  French;  and  in  addition  Nietzsche’s  sister,  Frau  Elizabeth 
Forster-Nietzsche,  has  not  only  published  an  excellent  edition  of 
his  collected  works  (including  his  youthful  sketches),  but  has  writ¬ 
ten  his  Life  (and  published  his  Correspondence). 

My  old  essay  on  Nietzsche  has  thus  long  ago  been  outstripped 
by  later  works,  the  writers  of  which  were  able  to  take  a  knowledge 
of  Nietzsche’s  work  for  granted  and  therefore  to  examine  his  writ¬ 
ings  without  at  the  same  time  having  to  acquaint  the  reader  with 
their  contents.  That  essay,  it  may  be  remembered,  occasioned  an 
exchange  of  words  between  Prof.  Hoffding  and  myself,  in  the  course 
of  which  I  had  the  opportunity  of  expressing  my  own  views  more 
clearly  and  of  showing  what  points  they  had  in  common  with  Nietz- 
'sche’s,  and  where  they  diverged  from  his.i  As,  of  course,  these  pole- 


1  See  “Tilskueren”  (Copenhagen)  for  August  and  November-Decemher  1889, 
January,  February-March,  April  and  May  1890. 


40 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


mical  utterances  of  mine  were  not  translated  into  foreign  languages, 
no  notice  was  taken  of  them  anywhere  abroad. 

The  first  essay  itself,  on  the  other  hand,  which  was  soon  trans¬ 
lated,  brought  me  in  a  number  of  attacks,  which  gradually  acquired 
a  perfectly  stereotyped  formula.  In  an  article  by  a  Germanized 
Swede,  who  wanted  to  be  specially  spiteful,  I  was  praised  for  hav¬ 
ing  in  that  essay  broken  with  my  past  and  resolutely  renounced  the 
set  of  liberal  opinions  and  ideas  I  had  hitherto  championed.  What¬ 
ever  else  I  might  be  blamed  for,  it  had  to  be  acknowledged  that 
twice  in  my  life  I  had  been  the  spokesman  of  German  ideas,  in  my 
youth  of  Hegel’s  and  in  my  maturer  years  of  Nietzsche’s.  In  a  book 
by  a  noisy  German  charlatan  living  in  Paris,  Herr  Nordau,  it  was 
shortly  afterwards  asserted  that  if  Danish  parents  could  guess  what 
I  was  really  teaching  their  children  at  the  University  of  Copen¬ 
hagen,  they  would  kill  me  in  the  street — a  downright  incitement 
to  murder,  which  was  all  the  more  comic  in  its  pretext,  as  admission 
to  my  lectures  has  always  been  open  to  everybody,  the  greater  part 
of  these  lectures  has  appeared  in  print,  and,  finally,  twenty  years 
ago  the  parents  used  very  frequently  to  come  and  hear  me.  It  was 
repeated  in  the  same  quarter  that  after  being  a  follower  of  Stuart 
Mill,  I  had  in  that  essay  turned  my  back  on  my  past,  since  I  had 
now  appeared  as  an  adherent  of  Nietzsche.  This  last  statement  was 
afterwards  copied  in  a  very  childish  book  by  a  Viennese  lady  who, 
without  a  notion  of  the  actual  facts,  writes  away,  year  in,  year  out, 
on  Scandinavian  literature  for  the  benefit  of  the  German  public. 
This  nonsense  was  finally  disgorged  once  more  in  1899  by  Mr,  Alf¬ 
red  Ipsen,  who  contributed  to  the  London  Athenoeum  surveys  erf 
Danish  literature,  among  the  virtues  of  which  impartiality  did  not 
find  a  place. 

In  the  face  of  these  constantly  repeated  assertions  from  abroad, 
I  may  be  permitted  to  make  it  clear  once  more — as  I  have  already 
shown  in  Tilskueren  in  1890  (p.  259) — that  my  principles  have  not 
been  in  the  slightest  way  modified  through  contact  with  Nietzsche. 
When  I  became  acquainted  with  him  I  was  long  past  the  age  at 
which  it  is  possible  to  change  one’s  fundamental  view  of  life.  More¬ 
over,  I  maintained  many  years  ago,  in  reply  to  my  Danish  oppon¬ 
ents,  that  my  first  thought  with  regard  to  a  philosophical  book  was 
by  no  means  to  ask  whether  what  it  contains  is  right  or  wrong: 
‘T  go  straight  through  the  book  to  the  man  behind  it.  And  my  first 
question  is  this:  What  is  the  value  of  this  man,  is  he  interesting, 
or  not?  If  he  is,  then  his'  books  are  undoubtedly  worth  knowing. 
Questions  of  right  or  wrong  are  seldom  applicable  in  the  highest 
intellectual  spheres,  and  their  answering  is  not  unfrequently  of  rela¬ 
tively  small  importance.  The  first  line  I  wrote  about  Nietzsche*  were 
therefore  to  the  effect  that  he  deserved  to  be  studied  and  contested. 
I  rejoiced  in  him,  as  I  rejoice  in  every  powerful  and  uncommon  in¬ 
dividuality.”  And  three  years  later  I  replied  to  the  attack  of  a 
worthy  and  able  Swiss  professor,  who  had  branded  Nietzsche  as 
a  reactionary  and  a  cynic,  in  these  words,  amongst  others:  “No 
mature  reader  studies  Nietzsche  with  the  latent  design  of  adopting 
his  opinions,  still  less  with  that  of  propagating  them.  We  are  not 
children  in  search  of  instruction,  but  skeptics  in  search  of  men, 
and  we  rejoice  when  we  have  found  a  man — the  rarest  thing  there 
is.” 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


41 


It  seems  to  me  that  this  is  not  exactly  the  language  of  an 
adherent,  and  that  my  critics  might  spare  some  of  their  powder 
and  shot  as  regards  my  renunciation  of  ideas.  It  is  a  nuisance  to 
be  forced  now  and  then  to  reply  in  person  to  all  the  allegations 
that  are  accumulated  against  one  year  by  year  in  the  European 
press;  but  when  other's  never  write  a  sensible  word  about  one,  it  be¬ 
comes  an  obligation  at  times  to  stand  up  for  one’s  self. 

My  personal  connection  with  Nietzsche  began  with  his  sending 
me  his  book.  Beyond  Good  and  Evil.  I  read  it,  received  a  strong  im¬ 
pression,  though  not  a  clear  or  decided  one,  and  did  nothing  further 
about  it — for  one  reason,  because  I  receive  every  day  far  too  many 
books  to  be  able  to  acknowledge  them.  But  as  in  the  following  year 
The  Genealogy  of  Morals  was  sent  me  by  the  author,  and  as  this 
book  was  not  only  much  clearer  in  itself,  but  also  threw  new  light 
on  the  earlier  one,  I  wrote  Nietzsche  a  few  lines  of  thanks,  and 
this  led  to  a  correspondence  which  was  interrupted  by  Nietzsche’s 
attack  of  insanity  thirteen  months  later. 

The  letters  he  sent  me  in  that  last  year  of  his  conscious  life 
appear  to  me  to  be  of  no  little  psychological  and  biographical  in¬ 
terest. 


Correspondence  Between  Friedrich  Nietzsche 
and  George  Brandes 

1.  Brandes  to  Nietzsche. 

Copenhagen,  Nov.  26,  1887. 

Dear  Sir, 

A  year  ago  I  received  through  your  publisher  your 
work  Beyond  Good  and  Evil;  the  other  day  your  latest  book 
reached  me  in  the  same  way.  Of  your  other  books  I  have 
Human,  all-too-Human.  I  had  just  sent  the  two  volumes  I 
possess  to  the  binder,  when  The  Genealogy  of  Morals  ar¬ 
rived,  so  that  I  have  not  been  able  to  compare  it  with  the 
earlier  works,  as  I  mean  to  do.  By  degrees  I  shall  read 
everything  of  yours  attentively. 

This  time,  however,  I  am  anxious  to  express  at  once 
my  sincere  thanks  for  the  book  sent.  It  is  an  honor  to  me 
to  be  known  to  you,  and  known  in  such  a  way  that  you 
should  wish  to  gain  me  as  a  reader. 

A  new  and  original  spirit  breathes  to  me  from  your 
books.  I  do  not  yet  fully  understand  what  I  have  read;  I 
cannot  always  see  your  intention.  But  I  find  much  that 
harmonize’s  with  my  own  ideas  and  sympathies,  the  de¬ 
preciation  of  the  ascetic  ideals  and  the  profound  disgust 
with  democratic  mediocrity,  your  aristocratic  radicalism. 
Your  contempt  for  the  morality  of  pity  is  not  yet  clear  to 
me.  There  were  also  in  the  other  work  some  reflections  on 
women  in  general  which  did  not  agree  with  my  own  line  of 
thought.  Your  nature  is  so  absolutely  different  from  mine 


42 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


that  it  is  not  easy  for  me  to  feel  at  home.  In  spite  of  your 
universality  you  are  very  German  in  your  mode  of  thinking 
and  writing.  You  are  one  of  the  few  people  with  whom  ! 
should  enjoy  to  talk. 

I  know  nothing  about  you.  I  see  with  astonishment  that 
you  are  a  professor  and  doctor.  I  congratulate  you  in  any 
case  on  being  intellectually  so  little  of  a  professor. 

I  do  not  know  what  you  have  read  of  mine.  My  writ¬ 
ings  only  attempt  the  solution  of  modest  problems.  For^the 
most  part  they  are  only  to  be  had  in  Danish.  For  many 
years  I  have  not  written  German.  I  have  my  best  public 
in  the  Slavonic  countries,  I  believe.  I  have  lectured  in  War¬ 
saw  for  two  years  in  succession,  and  this  year  in  Peters¬ 
burg  and  Moscow,  in  French.  Thus  I  endeavor  to  break 
through  the  narrow  limits  of  my  native  land. 

Although  no  longer  young,  I  am  still  one  of  the  most 
inquisitive  of  men  and  one  of  the  most  eager  to  learn.  You 
will  therefore  not  find  me  closed  against  your  ideas,  even 
when  I  differ  from  you  in  thought  and  feeling.  I  am  often 
stupid,  but  never  in  the  least  narrow. 

Let  me  have  the  pleasure  of  a  few  lines  if  you  think 
it  worth  the  trouble. 

Yours  gratefully, 

George  Brandes. 


2.  Nietzsche  to  Brandes. 

Nice,  Dec.  2,  1887 

My  Dear  Sir, 

A  few  readers  whom  one  honors  and  beyond  them  no 
readers  at  all — ^that  is  really  what  I  desire.  As  regards  the 
latter  part  of  this  wish,  I  am  bound  to  say  my  hope  of  its 
realization  is  growing  less  and  less.  All  the  more  happy  am 
I  in  satis  sunt  pauci,  that  the  pauci  do  not  fail  and  have 
never  failed  me.  Of  the  living  amongst  them  I  will  mention 
(to  name  only  those  whom  you  are  certain  to  know)  my 
distinguished  friend  Jakob  Burkhardt,  Hans  von  Bulow, 
H.  Taine,  and  the  Swiss  poet  Keller;  of  the  dead,  the  old 
Hegelian  Bruno  Bauer  and  Richard  Wagner.  It  gives  me 
sincere  pleasure  that  so  good  a  European  and  missionary 
of  culture  as  yourself  will  in  future  be  numbered  amongst 
them;  I  thank  you  with  all  my  heart  for  this  proof  of  your 
goodwill. 

I  am  afraid  you  will  find  it  a  difficult  position.  I  my- , 
self  have  no  doubt  that  my  writings  in  one  way  or  another 
are  still  “very  German.’^  You  will,  I  am  Sure,  feel  this  all 
the  more  remarkedly,  being  so  spoilt  by  yourself ;  I  mean, 
by  the  free  and  graceful  French  way  in  which  you  handle 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


43 


the  language  (a  more  familiar  way  than  mine).  With  me  a 
great  many  words  have  acquired  an  incrustation  of  foreign 
salts  and  taste  differently  on  my  tongue  and  on  those  of 
my  readers.  On  the  scale  of  my  experiences  and  circum¬ 
stances  the  predominance  is  given  to  the  rarer,  remoter, 
mere  attentuated  tones  as  against  the  normal,  medial  ones. 
Be’sides  (as  an  old  musician,  w^hich  is  what  I  really  am), 
I  have  an  ear  for  quarter-tones.  Finally — and  this  probably 
does  most  to  make  my  books  obscure — there  is  in  me  a  dis¬ 
trust  of  dialectics,  even  of  reasons.  What  a  person  already 
holds  ‘True’’  or  has  not  yet  acknowledged  as  true,  seems 
to  me  to  depend  mainly  on  his  courage,  on  the  relative 
strength  of  hi's  courage  (I  seldom  have  the  courage  for 
what  I  really  know). 

The  expression  Aristocratic  Radicalism,  which  you  em¬ 
ploy,  is  very  good.  It  is,  permit  me  to  say,  the  cleverest 
thing  I  have  yet  read  about  yourself. 

How  far  this  mode  of  thought  has  carried  me  already, 
how  far  it  will  carry  me  yet — I  am  almost  afraid  to  im¬ 
agine.  But  there  are  certain  paths  w^hich  do  not  allow  one 
to  go  backward  and  so  I  go  forward,  because  I  must. 

That  I  may  not  neglect  anything  on  my  part  that  might 
facilitate  your  access  to  m.y  cave — that  is,  my  philo'sophy — 
my  Leipzig  publishers  shall  send  you  all  my  older  books 
en  bloc.  I  recommend  you  especially  to  read  the  new  pre¬ 
faces  to  them  (they  have  nearly  all  been  republished) ; 
these  prefaces,  if  read  in  order,  will  perhaps  throw  some 
light  upon  me,  assuming  that  I  am  not  obscurity  in  itself 
(obscure  in  myself)  as  obscurissimus  obsciirorum  virorum. 
For  that  is  quite  possible. 

Are  you  a  musician?  A  work  of  mine  for  chorus  and 
orchestra  is  just  being  published,  a  “Hymn  to  Life.”  This 
is  intended  to  represent  my  music  to  posterity  and  one  day 
to  be  sung  “in  my  memory”;  assuming  that  there  is  enough 
left  of  me  for  that.  You  see  what  posthumous  thought  I 
have.  But  a  philosophy  like  mine  Is  like  a  grave — it  takes 
one  from  among  the  living.  Bene  vixit  qui  bene  latuit — was 
inscribed  on  Descartes’  tombstone.  What  an  epitaph,  to  be 
sure! 

I  too  hope  we  may  meet  some  day, 

Yours, 

Nietzsche. 

N.  B.— I  am  staying  this  winter  at  Nice.  My  summer 
address  is  Sil's-Maria,  Upper  Engadine,  Switzerland— I  have 
resigned  my  professorship  at  the  University.  I  am  three 
parts  blind. 


44 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


3.  Brandes  to  Nietzsche. 


Copenhagen,  Dec.  15,  1887 

My  Dear  Sir, 

The  last  words  of  your  letter  are  those  that  have  made 
most  impression  on  me;  those  in  which  you  tell  me  that 
your  eyes  are  seriously  affected.  Have  you  consulted  good 
oculists,  the  best?  It  alters  one’s  whole  psychological  life 
if  one  cannot  see  well.  You  owe  it  to  all  who  honor  you  to 
do  everything  possible  for  the  preservation  and  improve¬ 
ment  of  your  sight. 

I  have  put  off  answering  your  letter  because  you  an¬ 
nounced  the  sending  of  a  parcel  of  books,  and  I  wished 
to  thank  you  for  them  at  the  same  time.  But  as  the  parcel 
ha's  not  yet  arrived  I  will  send  you  a  few  words  today.  I 
have  your  books  back  from  the  binder  and  have  gone  into 
them  as  deeply  as  I  was  able  amid  the  stress  of  preparing 
lectures  and  all  kinds  of  literary  and  political  work. 


'  December  17 

I  am  quite  willing  to  be  called  a  *^good  European,”  less 
so  to  be  called  a  ‘^missionary  of  culture.”  I  have  a  horror 
of  all  missionary  effort — because  I  have  come  across  none 
but  moralizing  missionaries — and  I  am  afraid  I  do  not  alto¬ 
gether  believe  in  what  is  called  culture.  Our  culture  as  a 
whole  cannot  inspire  enthusiasm,  can  it?  and  what  would 
a  missionary  be  without  enthusiasm!  In  other  words,  I  am 
more  isolated  than  you  think.  All  I  meant  by  being  German 
was  that  you  write  more  for  yourself,  think  more  of  your¬ 
self  in  writing,  than  for  the  general  public;  whereas  most 
non-German  writers  have  been  obliged  to  force  themselves 
into  a  certain  discipline  of  stvle,  which  no  doubt  makes  the., 
latter  clearer  and  more  plastic,  but  necessarily  deprives  it 
of  all  profundity  and  compels  the  writer  to  keep  to  himself 
his  most  intimate  and  best  individuality,  the  anonymous 
in  him.  I  have  thus  been  horrified  at  times  to  see  how  little 
of  my  inmost  self  is  more  than  hinted  at  in  my  writings. 

I  am  no  connoisseur  in  music.  The  arts  of  which  I 
have  some  notion  are  sculpture  and  painting;  I  have  to 
thank  them  for  my  deepest  artistic  impressions.  My  ear  is 
undeveloped.  In  my  young  days  this  was  a  great  grief  to 
me.  I  used  to  play  a  good  deal  and  worked  at  thorough-bass 
for  a  few  years,  but  nothing  came  of  it.  I  can  enjoy  good 
music  keenly,  but  still  am  one  of  the  uninitiated. 

T  think  I  can  trace  in  your  works  certain  points  of 
agreement  with  my  own  taste:  your  predilection  for  Beyle, 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


45 


for  instance,  and  for  Taine;  but  the  latter  I  have  not  seen 
for  seventeen  years.  1  am  not  so  enthusiastic  about  his  work 
on  the  Revolution  as  you  seem  to  be.  He  deplores  and  har¬ 
angues  an  earthquake. 

I  used  the  expression  “aristocratic  radicalism”  because 
it  so  exactly  defines  my  own  political  convictions.  I  am  a 
little  hurt,  however,  at  the  offhand  and  impetuous  pro¬ 
nouncements  against  such  phenomena  as  socialism  and  an¬ 
archism  in  your  works.  The  anarchism  of  Prince  Kropotkin, 
for  instance,  is  no  stupidity.  The  name,  of  course,  is  noth¬ 
ing.  Your  intellect,  which  is  usually'so  dazzling,  seems  to 
me  to  fall  a  trifle  short  where  truth  is  to  be  found  in  a 
nuance.  Your  views  on  the  origin  of  the  moral  ideas  inter¬ 
est  me  in  the  highest  degree. 

You  share — to  my  delighted  astonishment — a  certain 
repugnance  which  I  feel  for  Herbert  Spencer.  With  us  he 
passes  for  the  god  of  philosophy.  However,  it  is  a  rule  a 
distinct  merit  with  these  Englishmen  that  their  not  very 
high-soaring  intellect  shuns  hypotheses,  whereas  as  hypo¬ 
thesis  has  destroyed  the  supremacy  of  German  philosophy. 
Is  not  there  a  great  deal  that  is  hypothical  in  your  ideas 
of  caste  distinction  as  the  source  of  various  moral  concepts? 

I  know  Ree  whom  you  attack,  have  met  him  in  Berlin; 
he  was  a  quiet  man,  rather  distinguished  in  his  bearing, 
but  a  somewhat  dry  and  limited  intellect.  He  was  living — 
according  to  his  own  account,  as  brother  and  sister — with 
a  quite  young  and  intelligent  Russian  lady,  who  published 
a  year  or  two  ago  a  book  called  Der  Kampf  um  Gott,  but 
this  gives  no  idea  of  her  genuine  gifts. 

I  am  looking  forward  to  receiving  the  books  you  prom¬ 
ise  me.  I  hope  in  future  you  will  not  lose  sight  of  me.  ' 

Yours, 

George  Brandes 


4.  Nietzsche  to  Brandes. 

Nice,  Jan.  8,  1888 

« 

.  .  .  .  You  should  not  object  to  the  expression  “missionary 
of  culture.”  What  better  way  is  there  of  being  one  in  our 
day  than  that  of  “missionizing”  one’s  disbelief  in  culture? 
To  have  understood  that  our  European  culture  is  a  vast 
problem  and  by  no  mean's  a  solution — is  not  such  a  degree 
of  introspection  and  self-conquest  nowadays  culture  itself? 

I  am  surprised  my  books  have  not  yet  reached  you.  I 
shall  not  omit  to.  send  a  reminder  to  Leipzig.  At  Christmas 


46 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


time  Messieurs  the  publishers  are  apt  to  lose  their  heads. 
Meanwhile  may  I  be  allowed  to  bring  to  your  notice  a  dar¬ 
ing  curiosity  over  which  no  publisher  has  authority,  an 
ineditum  of  mine  that  is  among  the  most  personal  things 
I  can  show.  It  is  the  fourth  part  of  my  Zarathustra;  its 
proper  title,  with  regard  to  what  precedes  and  follows  it, 
should  be — 


Zarathustra’s  Temptation 
An  Interlude 

Perhaps  this  is  my  best  answer  to  your  question  about 
my  problem  of  pity.  Besides  which,  there  are  excellent  rea¬ 
sons  for  gaining  admission  to  “me”  by  this  particular  secret 
door;  provided  that  one  crosses  the  threshold  with  your 
eyes  and  ears.  Your  essay  on  Zola  reminded  me  once  more, 
like  everything  I  have  met  with  of  yours  (the  last  was  an 
essay  in  the  Goethe  Year-book),  in  the  most  agreeable 
way  of  your  natural  tendency  towards  every  kind  of  psycho¬ 
logical  optics.  When  working  out  the  most  difficult  mathe¬ 
matical  problems  of  the  ame  moderne  you  are  as  much  in 
your  element  as  a  German  scholar  in  such  case  is  apt  to  be 
out  of  his.  Or  do  you  perhaps  think  more  favorably  of 
present-day  Germans?  It  seems  to  me  that  they  become  year 
by  year  more  clumsy  and  rectangular  in  rebus  psychologicis 
(in  direct  contrast  to  the  Parisians,  with  whom  everything 
is  becoming  naunce  and  mosaic),  so  that  all  events  below 
the  surface  escape  their  notice.  For  example,  my  Beyond 
Good  and  Evil — what  an  awkward  position  it  has  put  them 
in!  Not  one  intelligent  word  has  reached  me  about  this 
book,  let  alone  an  intelligent  sentiment.  I  do  not  believe 
even  the  most  well-disposed  of  my  readers  has  discovered 
that  he  has  here  to  deal  with  the  logical  results  of  a  per¬ 
fectly  definite  philosophical  sensibility,  and  not  with  a 
medley  of  a  hundred  promiscuous  paradoxes  and  heterodox¬ 
ies.  Nothing  of  the  kind  has  been  “experienced”;  my  readers 
do  not  bring  to  it  a  thousandth  part  of  the  passion  and 
suffering  that  is  needed.  An  “immoralist  I”  This  does  not 
suggest  anything  to  them. 

By  the  way,  the  Goncourts  in  one  of  their  prefaces 
claim  to  have  invented  the  phrase  document  humain.  But 
for  all  that  M.  Taine  may  well  be  its  real  originator. 

You  are  right  in  what  you  say  about  “haranguing  an 
earthquake”;  but  such  Quixotism  is  among  the  most  honor¬ 
able  things  on  this  earth. 

With  the  greatest  respect, 
Yours, 


Nietzsche 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


47 


5.  Brandes  to  Nietzsche. 


Copenhagen,  Jan.  11,  1888 

My  Dear  Sir, 

Your  publisher  has  apparently  forgotten  to  send  me 
your  books,  but  I  have  today  received  your  letter  with 
thanks.  I  take  the  liberty  of  sending  you  herewith  one  of 
my  books'  in  proof  (because  unfortunately  I  have  no  other 
copy  at  hand),  a  collection  of  essays  intended  for  export, 
therefore  not  my  best  wares.  They  date  from  various  times 
and  are  all  too  polite,  too  laudatory,  too  idealistic  in  tone. 

I  never  really  say  all  I  think  in  them.  The  paper  on  Ibsen 
is  no  doubt  the  best,  but  the  translation  of  the  verse's, 
which  I  had  done  for  me,  is  unfortunately  wretched. 

There  is  one  Scandinavian  writer  whose  works  would 
interest  you,  if  only  they  were  translated:  Soren  Kierke¬ 
gaard;  he  lived  from  1813  to  1855,  and  is  in  my  opinion  one 
of  the  profoundest  psychologists  that  have  ever  existed. 
A  little  book  I  wrote  about  him  (translated,  Leipzig,  1879) 
gives  no  adequate  idea  of  his  genius,  as  it  is  a  sort  of  pole¬ 
mical  pamphlet  written  to  counteract  his  influence.  But  in 
a  psychological  respect  it  is,  I  think,  the  most  subtle  thing 
I  have  published. 

The  essay  in  the  Goethe  Year-book  was  unfortunately 
shortened  by  more  than  a  third,  as  the  space  had  been  - 
reserved  for  me.  It  is  a  good  deal  better  in  Danish. 

If  you  happen  to  read  Polish,  I  will  send  you  a  little 
book  that  I  have  published  only  in  that  language. 

I  see  the  new  Rivista  Contemporanea  of  Florence  has 
printed  a  paper  of  mine  on  Danish  literature.  You  must  not 
read  it.  It  is  full  of  the  most  ridiculous  mistakes.  It  is 
translated  from  the  Russian,  I  must  tell  you.  I  had  allowed 
it  to  be  translated  into  Russian  from  my  French  text,  but 
could  not  check  this  tran’slation ;  now  it  appears  in  Italian 
from  the  Russian  with  fresh  absurdities ;  amongst  others  in 
the  names  (on  account  of  the  Russian  pronunciation),  G 
for  H  throughout. 

I  am  glad  you  find  in  me  something  serviceable  to  your¬ 
self.  For  the  last  four  years  I  have  been  the  most  detested 
man  in  Scandinavia.  Every  day  the  papers  rage  against  me, 
especially  since  my  last  long  quarrel  with  Bjornson,  in 
which  the  moral  German  papers  all  took  part  against  me.  I 
dare  say  you  know  his  absurd  play,  A  Gauntlet,  his  propa¬ 
ganda  for  male  virginity  and  his  covenant  with  the  spokes¬ 
women  of  “the  demand  for  equality  in  morals.’’  Anything 
like  it  was  certainly  unheard  of  till  now.  In  Sweden  these 


48 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


insane  women  have  formed  great  leagues  in  which  they 
vow  ‘*only  to  marry  virgin  men/^  I  suppose  they  get  a  guar¬ 
antee  with  them,  like  watches,  only  the  guarantee  for  the 
future  is  not  likely  to  be  forthcoming. 

I  have  read  the  three  books  of  yours  that  I  know  again 
and  again.  There  are  two  or  three  bridge's  leading  from  my 
inner  world  to  yours :  Csesarism,  hatred  of  pedantry,  a  sense 
for  Beyle,  etc.,  but  still  most  of  it  is  strange  to  me.  Our 
experiences  appear  to  be  so  infinitely  dis'similar.  You  are 
without  doubt  the  most  suggestive  of  all  German  writers. 

Your  German  literature!  I  don’t  know  what  is  the  mat¬ 
ter  with  it.  I  fancy  all  the  brains  must  go  into  the  General 
Staff  or  the  administration.  The  whole  life  of  Germany  and 
all  your  institutions  are  spreading  the  most  hideous  uni¬ 
formity,  and  even  authorship  is  stifled  by  publishing. 

Your  obliged  and  respectful, 

George  Brandes 


6.  Nietzsche  to  Brandes. 

Nice,  Feb.  19,  1888 

....  You  have  laid  me  under  a  most  agreeable  obligation 
with  your  contribution  to  the  idea  of  “Modernity,”  for  it 
'  happens  that  this  winter  I  am  circling  round  this  para¬ 
mount  problem  of  values,  very  much  from  above  and  in  the 
manner  of  a  bird,  and  with  the  best  intention  of  looking 
down  upon  the  modern  world  with  as  unmodern  an  eye  als 
possible.  I  admire — let  me  confess  it — the  tolerance  of  your 
judgment,  as  much  as  the  moderation  of  your  sentences. 
How  you  suffer  these  “little  children”  to  come  unto  you! 
Even  Heyse! 

f 

On  my  next  visit  to  Germany  I  propose  to  take  up  the 
psychological  problem  of  Kierkegaard  and  at  the  same  time 
to  renew  acquaintance  with  your  older  literature.  It  will 
be  of  use  to  me  in  the  best  sense  of  the  W’ord — and  will 
"Serve  to  restore  good  humor  to  my  own  severity  and  arro¬ 
gance  of  judgment. 

My  publisher  telegraphed  to  me  yesterday  that  the 
books  had  gone  to  you.  I  will  spare  you  and  myself  the 
story  of  why  they  were  delayed.  Now,  my  dear  Sir,  may 
you  put  a  good  face  on  a  bad  bargain,  I  mean  on  this  Nietz- 

I  myself  cherish  the  notion  of  having  given  the  **new 
Germans”  the  richest,  most  actual  and  most  independent 
books  of  any  they  possess;  also  of  being  in  my  own  person 
sche  literature. 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


49 


a  capital  event  in  the  crisis  of  the  determination  of  values. 
But  this  may  be  an  error;  and,  what  is  more,  a  piece  of 
foolishness — I  do  not  want  to  have  to  believe  anything  [of 
the  sort]  about  myself. 

One  or  two  further  remarks:  they  concern  my  firstlings 
(the  Juvenilia  and  Juvenalia). 

The  pamphlet  against  Strauss,  the  wicked  merrymaking 
of  a  “very  free  spirit”  at  the  expense  of  one  who  thought 
himself  such,  led  to  a  terrific  scandal;  I  was  already  a 
Professor  ordinarious  at  the  time,  therefore  in  spite  of  my 
twenty-seven  years  a  kind  of  authority  and  something  ac¬ 
knowledged.  The  most  unbiassed  view  of  this  affair,  in 
which  almost  every  “notability”  took  part  for  or  against 
me,  and  in  which  an  insane  quantity  of  paper  was  covered 
with  printer’s  ink,  is  to  be  found  in  Karl  Hillebrand’s 
Zeiten,  Volker  und  Menschen,  second  volume.  The  trouble 
was  not  that  I  had  jeered  at  the  senile  bungling  of  an  emi¬ 
nent  critic,  but  that  I  had  caught  German  taste  in  flagranti 
in  compromising  tastelessness;  for  in  spite  of  all  party  dif¬ 
ferences  of  religion  and  theology  it  had  unanimously  admir¬ 
ed  Strauss’s  Alten  und  Neuen  Glauben  as  a  masterpiece  of 
freedom  and  subtlety  of  thought  (even  the  style!).  My 
pamphlet  was  the  first  onslaught  on  German  culture  (that 
“culture”  which  they  imagined  to  have  gained  the  victory 
over  France).  The  word  “Culture-Philistine,”  which  I  then 
invented,  has  remained  in  the  language  as  a  survival  of  the 
raging  turmoil  of  that  polemic. 

The  two  papers  on  Schopenhauer  and  Richard  Wagner 
appear  to  me  today  to  contain  self-confessions,  above  all 
promises  to  myself,  rather  than  any  real  psychology  of 
those  two  masters,  who  are  at  the  same  time  profoundly  re¬ 
lated  and  profoundly  antagonistic  to  me — (I  was  the  first 
to  distil  a  sort  of  unity  out  of  them  both;  at  present  this 
superstition  is  much  to  the  fore  in  G.erman  culture — that 
all  Wagnerites  are  followers  of  Schopenhauer.  It  was  other¬ 
wise  when  I  was  young.  Then  it  was  the  last  of  the  He¬ 
gelians  who  adhered  to  Wagner,  and  “Wagner  and  Hegel" 
was  still  the  watchword  of  the  ’fifties). 

Between  Thoughts  out  of  Season  and  Human,  all-too- 
Human  there  lies  a  crisis  and  a  skin-casting.  Physically 
too:  I  lived  for  years  in  extreme  proximity  to  death.  This 
was  my  great  good  fortune:  I  forgot  myself,  I  outlived  my¬ 
self  ...  I  have  performed  the  same  trick  once  again. 

I 

So  now  we  have  each  presented  gifts  to  the  other:  two 

traveller’s,  it  seems  to  me,  who  are  glad  to  have  met. 

\ 

I  remain. 

Yours  most  sincerely, 
Nietzsche. 


50 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


7.  Brandes  to  Nietzsche. 

Copenhagen,  March  7,  1888 

My  Dear  Sir, 

I  imagine  you  to  be  living  in  fine  spring  weather;  up 
here  we  are  buried  in  abominable  snowdrifts  and  have  been 
cut  off  from  Europe  for  several  days.  To  make  things  worse, 
I  have  this  evening  been  talking  to  some  hundred  imbeciles, 
and  everything  looks  grey  and  dreary  around  me,  so  to  re¬ 
vive  my  spirits  a  little  I  will  thank  you  for  your  letter  of 
February  19  and  your  generous  present  of  books. 

As  I  was  too  busy  to  write  to  you  at  once,  I  sent  you 
a  volume  on  German  Romanticism  which  I  found  on  my 
shelves.  I  should  be  very  sorry,  however,  that  you  should 
interpret  my  sending  it  otherwise  than  as  a  silent  expres¬ 
sion  of  thanks. 

The  book  was  written  in  1873  and  revised  in  1886;  but 
my  German  publisher  has  permitted  himself  a  number  of 
linguistic  and  other  alterations,  so  that  the  first  two  pages, 
for  instance,  are  hardly  mine  at  all.  Wherever  he  does  not 
understand  my  meaning,  he  puts  something  else,  and  de¬ 
clares  that  what  I  have  written  is  not  German. 

Moreover,  the  man  promised  to  buy  the  rights  of  the 
old  translation  of  my  book,  but  from  very  foolish  economy 
has  not  done  so;  the  con’sequence  is  that  the  German  courts 
have  suppressed  my  book  in  two  instances  as  pirated  (!) — 
because  I  had  included  in  it  fragments  of  the  old  transla¬ 
tion — while  the  real  pirate  is  allowed  to  sell  my  works 
freely^ 

The  probable  result  of  this  will  be  that  I  shall  with¬ 
draw  entirely  from  German  literature. 

I  sent  that  volume  because  I  had  no  other.  But  the  first 
one  on  the  emigres,  the  fourth  on  the  English  and  the  fifth 
on  the  French  romanticists  are  all  far,  far  better;  written 
con  amore. 

The  title  of  the  book,  Moderne  Geister,  is  fortuitous. 
I  have  written  some  twenty  volumes.  I  wanted  to  put  to¬ 
gether  for  abroad  a  volume  on  personalities  whose  names 
would  be  familiar.  That  is  how  it  came  about.  Some  things 
in  it  have  cost  a  good  deal  of  study,  such  as  the  paper  on 
Tegner,  which  tells  the  truth  about  him  for  the  first  time. 
Ibsen  will  certainly  interest  you  as  a  personality.  Unfortun¬ 
ately  as  a  man  he  does  not  stand  on  the  same  level  that 
he  reaches  as  a  poet.  Intellectually  he  owes  much  to  Kierke¬ 
gaard,  and  he  is  still  strongly  permeated  by  theology.  Bjorn- 
■  son  in  his  latest  phase  has  become  just  an  ordinary  lay- 
preacher. 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


61 


For  more  than  three  years  I  have  not  published  a  book; 
I  felt  too  unhappy.  These  three  year's  have  been  among  the 
hardest  of  my  life,  and  I  see  no  sign  of  the  approach  of 
better  times.  However,  I  am  now  going  to  set  about  the  pub¬ 
lication  of  the  sixth  volume  of  my  work  and  another  book 
besides.  It  will  take  a  deal  of  time. 

I  was  delighted  with  all  the  fresh  books,  turning  them 
over  and  reading  them. 

The  youthful  books  are  of  great  value  to  me;  they 
make  it  far  easier  to  understand  you;  I  am  now  leisurely 
ascending  the  steps  that  lead  up  to  your  intellect.  With 
Zarathu^tra  I  began  too  precipitately.  I  prefer  to  advance 
upwards  rather  than  to  dive  head  first  as  though  into  a  sea. 

I  knew  Hillebrand’s  essay  and  read  years  ago  some 
bitter  attacks  on  the  book  about  Strauss.  I  am  grateful 
to  you  for  the  word  culture-philistine;  I  had  no  idea  it  was 
yours.  I  take  no  offense  at  the  criticism  of  Strauss,  al¬ 
though  I  have  feelings  of  piety  for  the  old  gentleman.  Yet 
he  was  always  the  Tubingen  collegian. 

Of  the  other  works  I  have  at  present  only  'studied  The 
Dawn  of  Day  at  all  closely.  I  believe  I  understand  the  book 
thoroughly,  many  of  its  ideas  have  also  been  mine,  others 
are  new  to  me  or  put  into  a  new  shape,  but  not  on  that  ac¬ 
count  strange  to  me. 

One  solitary  remark,  so  as  not  to  make  this  letter  tco 
long.  I  am  delighted  with  the  aphorism  on  the  hazard  of 
marriage  (Aphorism  150).  But  why  do  you  not  dig  deeper 
here?  You  speak  somewhere  with  a  certain  reverence  of 
marriage,  which  by  implying  an  emotional  ideal  has  ideal¬ 
ized  emotion — here,  however,  you  are  more  blunt  and 
forcible.  Why  not  for  once  say  the  full  truth  about  it?  I 
am  of  opinion  that  the  institution  of  marriage,  which  may 
have  been  very  useful  in  taming  brutes,  causes  more  misery 
to  mankind  than  even  the  Church  has  done.  Church,  mon¬ 
archy,  marriage,  property,  these  are  to  my  mind  four  old 
venerable  institutions  which  mankind  will  have  to  reform 
from  the  foundations  in  order  to  be  able  to  breathe  freely. 
And  of  these  marriage  alone  kills  the  individuality,  paraly¬ 
ses  liberty  and  is  the  embodiment  of  a  paradox.  But  the 
shocking  thing  about  it  is  that  humanity  is  'still  too  coarse 
to  be  able  to  shake  it  off.  The  most  emancipated  writers, 
so  called,  still  speak  of  marriage  with  a  devout  and  virtuous 
air  which  maddens  me.  And  they  gain  their  point,  since  it 
is  impossible  to  say  what  one  could  put  in  its  place  for  the 
mob.  There  is  nothing  else  to  be  done  but  slowly  to  trans¬ 
form  opinion.  What  do  you  think  about  it? 

I  should  like  very  much  to  hear  how  it  is  with  your 
eyes.  I  was  glad  to  see  how  plain  and  clear  your  writing  is. 


52 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


Externally,  I  suppose,  you  lead  a  calm  and  peaceful  life 
down  there?  Mine  is  a  life  of  conflict  which  wears  one  out. 
In  these  realms  I  am  even  more  hated  now  than  I  was 
seventeen  years  ago;  this  is  not  pleasant  in  itself,  though 
it  is  gratifying  in  so  far  as  it  proves  to  me  that  I  have 
not  yet  lost  my  vigor  nor  come  to  terms  on  any  point  with 
sovereign  mediocrity. 

Your  attentive  and  grateful  reader, 

George  Brandes. 


8.  Nietzsche  to  Brandes. 


Nice,  March  27,  1888 

My  Dear  Sir, 

I  should  much  have  liked  to  thank  you  before  this  for 
so  rich  and  thoughtful  a  letter:  but  my  health  has  been 
troubling  me,  so  that  I  have  fallen  badly  into  arrears  with 
all  good  things.  In  my  eyes,  I  may  say  in  passing,  I  have  a 
dynamometer  for  my  general  state;  since  my  health  in  the 
main  has  once  more  improved,  they  have  become  stronger 
than  I  had  ever  believed  possible — ^they  have  put  to  shame 
the  prophecies  of  the  very  best  German  oculists.  If  Mes¬ 
sieurs  Grafe  et  hoc  genus  omne  had  turned  out  right,  I 
should  long  ago  have  been  blind.  As  it  is,  I  have  come  to 
No.  3  spectacles — bad  enough — but  I  still  see.  I  speak  of 
this  worry  because  you  were  sympathetic  enough  to  inquire 
about  it,  and  because  during  the  last  few  weeks  my  eyes 
have  been  particularly  weak  and  irritable. 


I  feel  for  you  in  the  North,  now  so  wintry  and  gloomy; 
how  does  one  manage  to  keep  one’s  soul  erect  there?  I 
admire  almost  every  man  who  does  not  lose  faith  in  him¬ 
self  under  a  cloudy  sky,  to  say  nothing  of  his  faith  in 
“humanity,”  in  “marriage,”  in  “property,”  in  the  “State.” 

.  .  .  In  Petersburg  I  should  be  a  nihilist:  here  I  believe  as' 
a  plant  believes,  in  the  sun.  The  sun  of  Nice — you  cannot 
call  that  a  prejudice.  We  have  had  it  at  the  expense  of  all 
the  rest  of  Europe.  God,  with  the  cynicism  peculiar  to  him, 
lets  it  shine  upon  us  idlers,  “philosophers”  and  sharpers 
more  brightly  than  upon  the  far  worthier  military  heroes 
of  the  “Fatherland.” 


But  then,  with  the  instinct  of  the  Northerner,  you 
have  chosen  the  strongest  of  all  stimulants  to  help  you  to 
endure  life  in  the  North:  war,  the  excitement  of  agression, 
the  Viking  raid.  I  divine  in  your  writings  the  practiced 
soldier;  and  not  only  “mediocrity,”  but  perhaps  especially 
the  more  independent  or  individual  characters  of  the  North¬ 
ern  mind  may  be  constantly  challenging  you  to  fight.  How 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


53 


much  of  the  ‘^parson,”  how  much  theology  is  still  left  be¬ 
hind  in  all  this  idealism!  .  To  me  it  would  be  still 
worse  than  a  cloudy  sky,  to  have  to  make  oneself  angry 
over  things  which  do  not  concern  one. 

So  much  for  this  time;  it  is  little  enough.  Your  German 
Romanticism  has  set  me  thinking,  how  this  whole  move¬ 
ment  actually  only  reached  its  goal  as  music  (Schumann, 
Mendelssohn,  Weber,  Wagner,  Brahms) ;  as  literature  it 
remained  a  great  promise.  The  French  were  more  fortunate. 
I  am  afraid  I  am  too  much  of  a  musician  not  to  be  a  ro¬ 
manticist.  Without  music  life  to  me  would  be  a  mistake. 

With  cordial  and  grateful  regards  I  remain,  dear  Sir, 

!  Yours, 

Nietzsche 


9.  Brandes  to  Nietzsche 


Copenhagen,  April  3,  1888 

My  Dear  Sir, 

You  have  called  the  postman  the  medium  of  ill-manner¬ 
ed  invasions.  That  is  very  true  as  a  rule,  and  should  be 
sat.  sapienti  not  to  trouble  you.  I  am  not  an  instruder  by 
nature,  so  little  in  fact  that  I  lead  an  almost  isolated  life, 
am  indeed  loth  to  write  letters,  and,  like  all  authors,  loth  to 
write  at  all. 

Yesterday,  however,  when  I  had  received  your  letter 
and  taken  up  one  of  your  books,  I  suddenly  felt  a  sort  of 
vexation  at  the  idea  that  nobody  here  in  Scandinavia  knew 
anything  about  you,  and  I  soon  determined  to  make  you 
known  at  a  stroke.  The  newspaper  cutting  will  tell  you 
that  (having  just  finished  a  series  of  lectures  on  Russia) 
I  am  announcing  fresh  lectures  on  your  writings.  For  many 
years  I  have  been  obliged  to  repeat  all  my  lectures,  as 
the  University  cannot  hold  the  audiences;  that  is  not 
likely  to  be  the  case  this  time,  as  your  name  is  so  absolutely 
new,  but  the  people  who  will  come  and  get  an  impression 
of  your  works  will  not  be  of  the  dullest. 

As  I  should  very  much  like  to  have  an  idea  of  your 
appearance,  I  beg  you  to  give  me  a  portrait  of  yourself.  I 
enclose  my  last  photograph.  I  would  also  ask  you  to  tell  me 
quite  briefly  when  and  where  you  were  born  and  in  what 
years  you  published  (or  better,  wrote)  your  works,  as  they 
are  not  dated.  If  you  have  any  newspaper  that  contains 
these  details,  there  will  be  no  need  to  write.  I  am  an  un¬ 
methodical  person  and  possess  neither  dictionaries  of  auth¬ 
ors  nor  other  books  of  reference  in  which  your  name  might 
be  found. 


54 


FEIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


The  youthful  works — the  Thoughts  out  of  Season — 
have  been  very  useful  to  me.  How  young  you  were  and 
enthusiastic,  how  frank  and  naive!  There  is  much  in  the 
maturer  books  that  I  do  not  yet  understand;  you  appear  to 
me  often  to  hint  at  or  generalize  about  entirely  intimate, 
personal  data,  giving  the  reader  a  beautiful  casket  without 
the  key.  But  most  of  it  I  understand.  I  was  enchanted  by 
the  youthful  work  on  Schopenhauer;  although  personally 
I  owe  little  to  Schopenhauer,  it  seemed  to  speak  to  me  from 
the  soul. 

One  or  two  pedantic  corrections:  Joyful  Wisdom,  p. 
116.  The  words  quoted  are  no  Chamfort’s  last,  they  are  to 
be  found  in  his  Characteres  et  Anecdotes:  dialogue  between 
M.  D.  and  M.  L.  in  explanation  of  the  sentence:  Peu  de 
personnes  et  peu  de  choses  m’interessent,  mais  rien  ne 
m’interesse  moins  que  moi.  The  concluding  words  are:  en 
vivant  et  en  voyant  les  hommes,  il  faut  que  le  coeur  s€ 
brise  ou  se  bronze. 

On  p.  118  you  speak  of  the  elevation  “in  which  Shake¬ 
speare  places  Csesar.^’  I  find  Shakespeare’s  Csesar  pitiable. 
An  act  of  high  treason.  And  this  glorification  of  the  miser¬ 
able  fellow  "whose  only  achievement  was  to  plunge  a  knife 
into  a  great  man. 

Human,  all-too-Human,  II,  p.  59.  A  holy  lie.  ‘Tt  is  the 
only  holy  lie  that  has  become  famous.”  No,  Desdemona’s 
last  words  are  perhaps  still  more  beautiful  and  just  as  fam¬ 
ous,  often  quoted  in  Germany  at  the  time  when  Jacobi  was 
writing  on  Lessing.  Am  I  not  right? 

These  trifles  are  only  to  show  you  that  I  read  you  at¬ 
tentively.  Of  course,  there  are  very  different  matters  that 
I  might  discus's  with  you,  but  a  letter  is  not  the  place  for 
them. 

If  you  read  Danish,  I  shoiild  like  to  send  you  a  hand¬ 
somely  got-up  little  book  on  Holberg,  which  will  appear  in 
a  week.  Let  me  know  whether  you  understand  our  language. 
If  you  read  Swedish,  I  call  your  attention  to  Sweden’s  only 
genius,  August  Strindberg.  When  you  write  about  women 
you  are  very  like  him. 

« 

I  hope  you  will  have  nothing  but  good  to  tell  me  of 
your  eyes. 


Yours  sincerely, 

George  Brandes 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


5i 


10.  Nietzsche  to  Brandes. 

Torini  (Italia)  ferma  in  posta,  April  10,  1888 

But,  my  dear  Sir,  what  a  surprise  is  this!  Where  have 
you  found  the  courage  to  propose  to  speak  in  public  of  a 
vir  obscurisisimus?  ...  Do  you  imagine  that  I  am  known  in 
the  beloved  Fatherland?  They  treat  me  there  as  if  I  were 
something  singular  and  absurd,  something  that  for  the 
present  need  not  be  taken  seriously  .  .  .  Evidently  they  have 
an  inkling  that  I  do  not  take  them  seriously  either:  and 
how  could  I,  nowadays,  when  “German  intellect”  has  be¬ 
come  a  contradictio  in  adjecto! — My  best  thanks  for  the 
photograph.  Unfortunately  I  have  none  to  send  in  return: 
my  sister,  who  is  married  and  lives  in  South  America,  took 
with  her  the  last  portraits  I  possessed. 

Enclosed  is  a  little  vita,  the  first  I  have  ever  written. 

As  regards  the  dates  of  composition  of  the  different 
books  they  are  to  be  found  on  the  back  of  the  cover  of 
Beyond  Good  and  Evil.  Perhaps  you  no  longer  have  this 
cover. 

The  Birth  of  Tragedy  was  written  between  the  summer 
of  1870  and  the  winter  of  1871  (finished  at  Lugano,  where 
I  was  living  with  the  family  of  Field-Marshall  Moltke.) 

The  Thoughts  out  of  Season  between  1872  and  the  sum¬ 
mer  of  1875  (there  were  to  have  been  thirteen ;  luckily  my 
health  said  No!). 

What  you  say  about  Schopenhauer  as  Educator  gives 
me  great  pleasure.  .This  little  work  serves  me  as  a  touch¬ 
stone;  he  to  whom  it  says  nothing  personal  has  probably 
nothing  to  do  with  me  either.  In  reality  it  contains  the 
whole  plan  according  to  which  I  have  hitherto  lived;  it  is 
a  rigorous  promise. 

Human,  all-too-Human,  with  its  two  continuations,  sum¬ 
mer  of  1876-1879.  The  Dawn  of  Day,  1880.  The  Joyful  Wis¬ 
dom,  January,  1882.  Zarathustra,  1883-1885  (each  part  in 
about  ten  days.  Perfect  state  of  “inspiration.”  All  con¬ 
ceived  in  the  course  of  rapid  walks:  absolute  certainty,  as 
though  each  sentence  were  shouted  to  one.  While  writing 
the  book,  the  greatest  physical  elasticity  and  sense  of 
power). 

Beyond  Good  and  Evil,  summer  of  1885  in  the  Upper 
Engadine*  and  the  following  winter  at  Nice. 

The  Genealogy  decided  on,  carried  out  and  sent  ready 
for  press  to  the  printer  at  Leipzig,  all  between  July  10  and 


56 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


30,  1887.  (Of  course  there  are  also  philologica  of  mine,  but 
they  do  not  concern  you  and  me.) 

I  am  now  making  an  experiment  with  Turin;  I  shall 
stay  here  till  June  5  and  then  go  to  the  Engadine.  The 
weather  so  far  is  wintry,  harsh  and  unpleasant.  But  the 
town  superbly  calm  and  favorable  to  my  instincts.  The 
finest  pavement  in  the  world. 

-  Sincere  greetings  from 

Yours  gratefully, 

Nietzsche. 


A  pity  I  understand  neither  Danish  nor  Swedish. 

Vita. — I  was  born  on  October  15,  1884,  on  the  battle¬ 
field  of  Lutzen.  The  first  name  I  heard  was  that  of  Gus- 
tavus  Adolphus.  My  ancestors  were  Polish  noblemen 
(Niezky) ;  it  seems  the  type  has  been  well  maintained,  in 
spite  of  three  generations  of  German  mothers.  Abroad  I 
am  usually  taken  for  a  Pole;  this  very  winter  the  visitors’ 
list  at  Nice  entered  me  comme  Polonais.  I  am  told  my  head 
occurs  in  Matejko’s  pictures.  My  grandmother  belonged  to 
the  Schiller-Goettie  circles  of  Weimar;  her  brother  was 
Herder’s  successor  in  the  position  of  General  Superintend¬ 
ent  at  Weimar.  I  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  a  pupil  of 
the  venerable  Pforta  School,  from  which  so  many  who 
have  made  a  name  in  German  literature  have  proceeded 
(Klopstock,  Fichte,  Schlegel,  Ranke,  etc.,  etc.,).  We  had 
masters  who  would  have  (or  have)  done  honor  to  any  uni¬ 
versity.  I  studied  at  Bonn,  afterwards  at  Leipzig;  old 
Ritschl,  then  the  first  philologist  in  Germany,  'singled  me 
out  almost  from  the  first.  At  twenty-two  I  was  a  contribu¬ 
tor  to  the  Litterarisches  Centralblatt  (Zarncke).  The  foun¬ 
dation  of  the  Philological  Society  of  Leipzig,  which  still 
exists,  is  due  to  me.  In  the  'winter  of  1868-1869  the  Univer¬ 
sity  of  Basle  offered  me  a  professorship;  I  was  as  yet  not 
even  a  Doctor.  The  University  of  Leipzig  afterwards  con¬ 
ferred  the  doctor’s  degree  on  me,  in  a  very  honorable  way, 
without  any  examination,  and  even  without  a  dissertion. 
From  Easter  1869  to  1879  I  was  at  Basle;  I  was  obliged 
to  give  up  my  rights  as  a  German  subject,  since  as  an 
officer  (Horst  Artillery)  I  should  have  been  called  up  too 
frequently  and  my  academic  duties  would  have  been  inter¬ 
fered  with.  I  am  none  the  less  master  of  two  weapons,  the 
sabre  and  the  cannon — and  perhaps  of  a  third  as  'well  .  .  . 
At  Basle  everything  went  very  well,  in  spite  of  my  youth; 
it  sometimes  happened,  especially  with  candidates  for  the 
doctor’s  degree,  that  the  examinee  was  older  than  the  ex¬ 
aminer.  I  had  the  great  good  fortune  to  form  a  cordial 
friendship  with  Jakob  Burkhardt,  an  unusual  thing  with 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


57 


that  very  hermit-like  and  secluded  thinker.  A  still  greater 
piece  of  good  fortune  was  that  from  the  earliest  days  of 
my  Basle  existence  an  indescribably  close  intimacy  sprang 
up  between  me  and  Richard  and  Cosima  Wagner,  who  were 
then  living  on  their  estate  of  Triebschen,  near  Lucerne, 
as  thought  on  an  island,  and  were  cut  off  from  all  former 
ties.  For  some  years  we  had  everything,  great  and  small,  in 
common,  a  confidence  without  bounds.  (You  will  find  , 
printed  in  Volume  VII  of  Wagner’s  complete  works  a  “mes¬ 
sage”  to  me,  referring  to  The  Birth  of  Tragedy.)  As  a  re¬ 
sult  of  these  relations  I  came  to  know  a  large  circle  of 
persons  (and  “personesses”),  in  fact  pretty  nearly  every¬ 
thing  that  grows  between  Paris  and  Petersburg.  By  about 
1876  my  health  became  worse.  I  then  spent  a  winter  at 
Sorrento,  with  my  old  friend.  Baroness  Meysenbug  (Mem- 
moirs  of  an  Idealist)  and  the  sympathetic  Dr.  Ree.  There 
was  no  improvement.  I  suffered  from  an  extremely  painful 
and  persistent  headache,  which  exhausted  all  my  strength. 
This  went  on  for  a  number  of  years,  till  it  reached  such  a 
climax  of  habitual  suffering,  that  at  that  time  I  had  200 
days  of  torment  in  the  year.  The  trouble  must  have  been 

due  entirely  to  local  causes,  there  is  no  neuropathic  basis 
for  it  of  any  sort.  I  have  never  had  a  symptom  of  mental 
disturbance;  not  even  of  fever,  nor  of  fainting.  My  pulse 
was  at  that  time  as  slow  as  that  of  the  first  Napoleon 
(=  60) .  My  speciality  was  to  endure  extreme  pain,  cru,  vert, 
with  perfect  clarity,  for  two  or  three  consecutive  days,  ac¬ 
companied  by  constant  vomiting  of  bile.  The  report  has 
been  put  about  that  I  was  in  a  madhouse  (and  indeed  that 
I  died  there).  Nothing  is  further  from  the  truth.  As  a 
matter  of  fact  my  intellect  only  came  to  maturity  during 
that  terrible  time:  witness  the  Dawn  of  Day,  which  I  wrote 
in  1881  during  a  winter  of  incredible  suffering  at  Genoa, 
away  from  doctors,  friends  or  relations.  This  book  serves 
me  as  a  sort  of  “dynamometer”:  I  composed  it  with  a  mini¬ 
mum  of  strength  and  health.  From  1882  on  I  went  forward 
again  very  slowly,  it  is  true:  the  crisis  was  past  (my  father 
died  very  young,  just  at  the  age  at  which  I  was  myself  so 
near  to  death).  I  have  to  use  extreme  care  even  today; 
certain  conditions  of  a  climatic  and  meteorological  order 
are  indispensable  to  me.  It  is  not  from  choice  but  from 
necessity  that  I  spend  the  summer  in  the  Upper  Engadine 
and  the  winter  at  Nice  .  .  .  After  all,  my  illness  has  been 
of  the  greatest  use  to  me:  it  has  released  me,  it  has  re¬ 
stored  to  me  the  courage  to  be  myself  .  .  .  And,  indeed,  in 
virtue  of  my  instincts,  I  am  a  brave  animal,  a  military  one 
even.  The  long  resistance  has  somewhat  exasperated  my 
pride.  Am  I  a  philosopher,  do  you  ask? —  But  what  does 
that  matter!  ... 


58 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


11.  Brandes  to  Nietzsche. 


Copenhagen,  April  29,  1888 

My  Dear  Sir, 

The  first  time  I  lectared  on  your  works,  the  hall  was 
not  quite  full,  an  audience  of  perhaps  a  hundred  and  fifty, 
since  no  one  knew  who  and  what  you  are.  But  as  an  im¬ 
portant  newspaper  reported  my  first  lecture,  and  as  I  have 
myself  written  an  article  on  you,  interest  was  roused,  and 
next  time  the  hall  was  full  to  bursting.  Some  three  hundred 
people  listened  with  the  greatest  attention  to  my  exposition 
of  your  works.  Nevertheless,  I  have  not  ventured  to  re¬ 
peat  the  lectures,  as  has  been  my  practice  for  many  years, 
since  the  subject  is  hardly  of  a  popular  nature.  I  hope  the 
result  will  be  to  get  you  some  good  readers  in  the  North. 

Your  books  now  stand  on  one  of  my  shelves,  very  hand¬ 
somely  bound,  I  should  be  very  glad  to  possess  everything 
you  have  published. 

When,  in  your  first  letter,  you  offered  me  a  musical 
work  of  yours,  a  Hymn  to  Life,  I  declined  the  gift  from 
modesty,  being  no  great  judge  of  music.  Now  I  think  I  have 
deserved  the  work  through  my  interest  in  it  and  should  be 
much  obliged  if  you  would  have  it  sent  to. me. 

I  believe  I  may  sum  up  the  impression  of  my  audien-ce 
in  the  feeling  of  a  young  painter,  who  said  to  me:  “What 
makes  this  so  interesting  is  that  it  has  not  to  do  with  books, 
but  with  life.’’  If  any  objection  is  taken  to  your  ideas,  it 
is  that  they  are  “too  out-and-out.*’ 

It  was  unkind  of  you  not  to  send  me  a  photograph;  I 
really  only  sent  mine  to  put  you  under  an  obligation.  It  is 
^  so  little  trouble  to  sit  to  a  photographer  for  a  minute  or 
two,  and  one  knows  a  man  far  better  when  one  has  an  idea 
of  his  appearance. 

Yours  very  sincerely, 

George  Brandes. 


12.  Nietzsche  to  Brandes. 


Turin,  May  4,  1888 

My  Dear  Sir, 

What  you  tell  mo  gives  me  great  pleasure  and—let  me 
confess  it — still  more  surprise.  Be  sure  I  shall  owe  you  for 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


59 


it:  you  know,  hermits  are  not  given  to  fo^’getting. 

Meanwhile  I  hope  my  photograph  will  have  reached 
you.  It  goe’s  without  saying  that  I  took  steps,  not  exactly 
to  be  photographed  (for  I  am  extiemely  distrustful  of  hap¬ 
hazard  photographs),  but  to  abstract  a  p.iotograph  from 
somebody  who  had  one  of  me.  Perhaps  I  have  succeeded;  I 
have  not  yet  heard.  If  not,  I  shall  avail  myself  of  my  next 
visit  to  Munich  (this  autumn  probably)  to  be  taken  again. 

The  Hymn  to  Life  will  start  on  its  journey  to  Copen¬ 
hagen  one  of  these  days.  We  philosophers  are  never  more 
grateful  than  when  we  are  mistaken  for  artists.  I  am  as¬ 
sured,  moreover,  by  the  best  judges  that  the  Hymn  is  thor-- 
oughly  fit  for  performance,  singable,  and  sure  in  its  effect 
( — clear  in  form;  this  praise  gave  me  the  greatest  plea¬ 
sure).  Mottl,  the  excellent  court  conductor  at  Carlsruhe 
(the  conductor  of  the  Bayreuth  festival  performances,  5mu 
know),  has  given  me  hopes  of  a  performance. 

I  have  just  heard  from  Italy  that  the  point  of  view  of 
my  second  Thought  out  of  Season  has  been  very  honorably 
mentioned  in  a  'survey  of  German  literature  contributed  by 
the  Viennese  scholar.  Dr.  von  Zackauer,  at  the  invitation  of 
the  Archivio  storico  of  Florence.  He  concludes  his  paper 
with  it. 

/  These  last  weeks  at  Turin,  where  I  shall  stay  .till  June 
5,  have  turned  out  better  than  any  I  have  known  for  years, 
above  all  more  philosophic.  Almost  every  day  for  one  or 
two  hours  I  have  reached  such  a  pitch  of  energy  as  to  be 
able  to  view  my  whole  conception  from  top  to  bottom;  so 
that  the  immense  multiplicity  of  problems  lies  'spread  out 
beneath  -me,  as  though  in  relief  and  clear  in  its  outlines. 
This  requires  a  maximum  of  strength,  for  which  I  had  al¬ 
most  given  up  hope.  It  all  hangs  together;  years  ago  it  was 
already  on  the  right  course;  one  builds  one’s  philosophy 
like  a  beaver,  one  is  forced  to  and  does  not  know  it:  but 
one  has  to  see  all  this,  as  I  have  now  seen  it,  in  order  to 
believe  it. 

I  am  so  relieved,  so  strengthened,  in  such,  good  humor — 

I  hang  a  little  farcical  tail  on  to  the  most  serious  things. 
What  is  the  reason  of  all  this?  Have  I  got  the  good  north 
winds  to  thank  for  it,  the  north  winds  which  do  not  always 
come  from  the  Alps? — they  come  now  and  then  even  from 
Copenhagen ! 

With  greetings. 

Your  gratefully  devoted, 

Nietzsche. 


60 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


13.  Nietzsche  to  Braudes 


Turin,  May  23,  1888 

My  Dear  Sir, 

I  should  not  like  to  leave  Turin  \vithout  telling  you 
once  more  what  a  great  share  you  have  had  in  my  first 
successful  spring.  The  history  of  my  springs,  for  the  last 
fifteen  years  at  least,  has  been,  I  must  tell  you,  a  tale  of 
horror,  a  fatality  of  decadence  and  infirmity.  Places  made 
no  difference;  it  was  as  though  no  prescription,  no  diet,  no 
climate  could  change  the  essentially  depressing  character 
of  this  time  of  year.  But  behold,  Turin!  And  the  first  good 
news,  your  news,  my  dear  Sir,  which  proved  to  me  that  I 
am  alive  .  .  .  For  I  am  sometimes  apt  to  forget  that  I  am 
alive.  An  accident,  a  question  reminded  me  the  other  day 
that  one  of  life’s  leading  ideas  is  positively  quenched  in 
me,  the  idea  of  the  future.  No  wish,  not  the  smallest  cloud¬ 
let  of  a  wish  before  me!  A  bare  expanse!  Why  should  not 
a  day  from  my  seventieth  year  be  exactly  like  my  day  to¬ 
day?  Have  I  lived  too  long  in  proximity  to  death  to  be 
able  any  longer  to  open  my  eye’s  to  fair  possibilities? — But 
certain  it  is  that  I  now  limit  myself  to  thinking  from  day 
to  day — that  I  settle  today  what  is  to  be  done  tomorrow — 
and' not  for  a  single  day  beyond  it!  This  may  be  irrational, 
unpractical,  perhaps  also  unchristian- — that  preacher  on  the 
Mount  forbade  this  very  “taking  thought  for  the  morrow” — 
but  it  seems  to  me  in  the  highest  degree  philosophical.  I 
gained  more  respect  for  myself  than  I  had  before: — I  un¬ 
derstood  that  I  had  unlearnt  how  to  wish,  without  even 
wanting  to  do  so. 

These  weeks  I  have  employed  in  “transvaluing  val¬ 
ues.” — You  understand  this  trope? — After  all,  the  alchemist 
is  the  most  deserving  kind  of  man  there  is!  I  mean  the  man 
who  makes  of  what  is  base  and  despised  something  valu¬ 
able,  even  gold.  He  alone  confers  wealth,  the  others  merely 
give  change.  My  problem  this  time  is  rather  a  curious  one; 

I  have  asked  myself  what  hitherto  has  been  best  hated, 
feared,  despised  by  mankind — and  of  that  and  nothing  else 
I  have  made  my  “gold.”  .  .  . 

If  only  I  am  not  accused  of  false-coining!  Or  rather; 
that  is  what  will  happen. 

Has  my  photograph  reached  you  ?  My  mother  has  shown 
me  the  great  kindness  of  relieving  me  from  the  appearance 
of  ungratefulness  in  such  a  special  case.  It  is  to  be  hoped 
the  Leipzig  publisher,  E.  W.  Fritzsch,  has  also  done  his 
duty  and  sent  off  the  Hymn. 

In  conclusion  I  confess  to  a  feeling  of  curiosity.  As  it 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE' 


61 


was  denied  me  to  listen  at  the  crack  of  the  door  to  learn 
something  about  myself,  I  should  like  to  hear  something  in 
another  way.  Three  words  to  characterize  the  subjects  of 
your  different  lectures — how  much  should  I  learn  from 
three  words ! 

With  cordial  and  devoted  greetings, 

Your, 

Nietzsche. 


14.  Hrandes  to  Nietzsche. 


Copenhagen,  May  23,  188 

My  Dear  Sir, 

For  letter,  portrait  and  music  I  send  you  my  best 
thanks.  The  letter  and  the  music  were  an  unqualified  plea¬ 
sure,  the  portrait  might  have  been  better.  It  is  a  profile 
taken  at  Naumburg,  characteristic  in  its  attitude,  but  with 
too  little  expression.  You  must  look  different  from  this; 
the  writer  of  Zarathustra  must  have  many  more  secrets 
written  in  his  own  face. 

I  concluded  my  lectures  on  Fr.  Nietzsche  before  Whit¬ 
suntide.  They  ended,  as  the  papers  say,  in  applause  “which 
took  the  form  of  an  ovation.”  The  ovation  is  yours  almost 
entirely.  I  take  the  liberty  of  communicating  it  to  you  here¬ 
with  in  writing.  For  I  can  only  claim  the  credit  of  repro¬ 
ducing,  clearly  and  connectedly,  and  intelligibly  to  a  North¬ 
ern  audience,  what  you  had  originated. 

I  also  tried  to  indicate  your  relation  to  various  con¬ 
temporaries,  to  introduce  my  hearers  into  the  workshop  of 
your  thought,  to  put  forward  my  own  favorite  (ideas,  where 
they  coincided  with  yours,  to  define  the  points  on  which 
I  differed  from  you,  and  to  give  a  psychological  portrait 
of  Nietzsche  the  author.  Thus  much  I  may  say  without 
exaggeration:  your  name  is  now  very  popular  in  all  intelli¬ 
gent  circles  in  Copenhagen,  and  all  over  Scandinavia  it  is 
at  least  known.  You  have  nothing  to  thank  me  for;  it  has 
been  a  pleasure  to  me  to  penetrate  into  the  world  of  your 
thoughts.  My  lectures  are  not  worth  printing,  as  I  do  not 
regard  pure  philosophy  as  my  special  province  and  am  un¬ 
willing  to  print  anything  with  a  subject  in  which  I  do  not 
feel  sufficiently  competent. 

I  am  glad  you  feel  so  -invigorated  physically  and  so 
well  disposed  mentally.  Here,  after  a  long  winter,  we  have 
mild  spring  weather.  We  are  rejoicing  in  the  first  green 
leaves  and  in  a  very  well-arranged  Northern  exhibition 
that  has  been  opened  at  Copenhagen.  All  the  French  artists 


62 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE  ' 


of  eminence  (painters  and  sculptors)  are  also  exhibiting  here. 
Nevertheless,  I  am  longing  to  get  away,  but  have  to  stay. 

But  this  cannot  interest  you.  I  forgot  to  tell  you: 
if  you  do  not  know  the  Icelandic  sagas,  you  must  study 
them.  You  will  find  there  a  great  deal  to  confirm  your  hy¬ 
potheses  and  theories  about  the  morality  of  a  master  race. 

In  one  trifling  detail  you  seem  to  have  missed  the  mark. 
Gothic  has  certainly  nothing  to  do  with  good  or’  God.  It  is 
connected  with  giessen,  he  who  emits  the  seed,  and  means 
stallion,  man. 

On  the  other  hand,  our  philologists  here  think  your 
suggestion  of  bonus — duonus  is  much  to  the  point. 

I  hope  that  in  future  we  shall  never  become  entirely 
strangers  to  one  another. 

I  remain  your  faithful  reader  and  admirer, 

George  Brandeis. 


15.  Nietzsche  to  Brandes.  (post-card.) 

Turin,  May  27,  1888 

What  eyes  you  have!  You  are  right,  the  Nietzsche  of 
the  photograph  is  not  yet  the  author  of  Zarathustra — he 
is  a  few  years  too  young  for  that. 

I  am  very  grateful  for  the  etymology  of  Goth;  it  is 
simply  godlike. 

I  presume  you  are  reading  another  letter  of  mine  today. 

Your  gratefully  attached 

N. 


16.  Nietzsche  to  Bi^andes. 


Sils-Maria,  Sept.  13,  1888 

My  Dear  Sir, 

Herewith  I  do  myself  a  pleasure — that  of  recalling 
myself  to  your  memory,  by  sending  you  a  wicked  little  book, 
but  one  that  is  none  the  less  very  seriously  meant;  the 
product  of  the  good  days  of  Turin.  For  I  must  tell  you  that 
since  then  there  have  been  evil  days  in  superfluity;  such  a 
decline  in  health,  courage  and  ‘Vill  to  life,”  to  talk  Schop- 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


63 


enhauer,  that  the  little  spring  idyll  scarcely  seemed  credible 
any  longer.  Fortunately  I  still  possessed  a  document  belonging 
to  it,  the  Case  of  Wagner.  A  Musician’s  Problem.  Spiteful 
tongues  will  prefer  to  call  it  The  Fall  of  Wagner. 

Much  as  you  may  disclaim  music  ( — the  most  import¬ 
unate  of  all  the  Muses),  and  with  however  good  reason, 
yet  pray  look  at  this  piece  of  musician’s  psychology.  You 
my  dear  Mr.  Cosmopolitan,  are  far  too  European  in  your 
ideas  not  to  hear  in  it  a  hundred  times  more  than  my  'so- 
called  countrymen,  the  ‘‘musical”  Germans. 

After  all,  in  this  case  I  am  a  connoisseur  in  rebus  et 
personis — and,  fortunately,  enough  of  a  musician  by  in¬ 
stinct  to  see  that  in  this  ultimate  question  of  values,  the 
problem  is  accessible  and  soluble  through  music. 

In  reality  this  pamphlet  is  almost  written  in  French — 
I  dare  say  it  would  be  easier  to  translate  it  into  French 
than  into  German. 

Could  you  give  me  one  or  two  more  Russian  or  French 
addresses  to  which  there  would  be  some  sense  in  sending 
the  pamphlet? 

In  a  month  or  two  something  philosophical  may  be  ex¬ 
pected;  under  the  very  inoffen'sive  title  of  Leisure  Hours 
of  a  Psychologist  I  am  saying  agreeable  and  disagreeable 
things  to  the  world  at  large — including  that  intelligent  na¬ 
tion,  the  Germans. 

But  all  this  is  in  the  main  ^nothing  but  recreation  be¬ 
side  the  main  thing:  the  name  of  the  latter  is  Transvalu¬ 
ation  of  All  Values.  Europe  will  have  to  discover  a  new 
Siberia,  to  which  to  consign  the  author  of  these  experiments 
with  values. 

I  hope  this  high-spirited  letter  will  find  you  in  one  of 
your  usual  resolute  moods. 

With  kind  remembrances. 

Yours, 

Dr.  Nietzsche. 

Address  till  middle  of  November:  Torino  (Italia) 
ferma  in  posta. 


17.  Brandes  to  Nietzsche. 

Copenhagen,  Oct.  6,  1838 

My  Dear  Sir, 

Your  letter  and  valued  gift  found  me  in  a  raging  fever 
of  work.  This  accounts  for  my  delay  in  answering. 


64 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


The  mere  sight  of  your  handwriting  gave  me  pleasur¬ 
able  excitement. 

It  is  sad  news  that  you  have  had  a  bad  summer.  I  was 
foolish  enough  to  think  that  you  had  already  got  over  all 
your  physical  troubles. 

I  have  read  the  pamphlet  with  the  greatest  attention 
and  much  enjoyment.  I  am  not  so  unmusical  that  I  cannot 
enter  into  the  fun  of  it.  I  am  merely  not  an  expert.  A  few 
days  before  receiving  the  little  book  I  heard  a  very  fine 
performance  of  Carmen;  what  glorious  music!  However, 
at  the  risk  of  exciting  your  wrath  I  confess  that  Wagner’s 
Tristan  and  Isolde  made  an  indelible  impression  on  me.  I 
once  heard  this  opera  in  Berlin,  in  a  despondent,  altogether 
shattered  state  of  mind,  and  I  felt  every  note.  I  do  not 
know  whether  the  impression  was  so  deep  because  I  was 
so  ill. 

Do  you  know  Bizet’s  widow?  You  ought  to  send  her  the 
pamphlet.  She  would  like  it.  She  is  the  sweetest,  most 
charming  of  women,  with  a  nervous  tic  that  is  curiously 
becoming,  but  perfectly  genuine,  perfectly  sincere  and  full 
of  fire.  Only  she  has  married  again  (an  excellent  man,  a 
barrister  named  Straus,  of  Paris).  I  believe  she  knows 
'some  German.  I  could  get  you  her  address,  if  it  does  not 
put  you  against  her  that  she  has  not  remained  true  to  her 
god — any  more  than  the  Virgin  Mary,  Mozart’s  widow  or 
Marie  Louise. 

Bizet’s  child  is  ideally  beautiful  and  charming. — But  I 
am  gossiping. 

I  have  given  a  copy  of  the  book  to  the  greatest  of 
Swedish  writer's,  August  Strindberg,  whom  I  have  entirely 
won  over  to  you.  He  is  a  true  genius,  only  a  trifle  mad 
like  most  geniuses  (and  non-geniuses).  The  other  copy  I 
shall  also  place  with  care. 

Paris  I  am  not  well  acquainted  with  now.  But  send  a 
copy  to  the  following  address :  Madame  la  Princesse  Anna 
Dmitrievna  Tenicheff,  Quai  Anglais  20,  Petersburg.  This 
lady  is  a  friend  of  mine;  she  is  also  acquainted  with  the 
musical  world  of  Petersburg  and  will  make  you  known 
there.  I  have  asked  her  before  now  to  buy  your  works,  but 
they  were  all  forbidden  in  Russia,  even  Human,  all-too- 
Human. 

It  would  also  be  as  well  to  send  a  copy  to  Prince  Urus- 
sov  (who  is  mentioned  in  Turgeniev’s  letters).  He  is  greatly 
interested  in  everything  German,  and  is  a  man  of  rich  gifts, 
an  intellectual  gourmet.  I  do  not  remember  his  address  for 
the  moment,  but  can  find  it  out. 

I  am  glad  that  in  spite  of  all  bodily  ills  you  are  work¬ 
ing  so  vigorously  and  keenly.  I  am  looking  forward  to  all 
the  things  you  promise  me. 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


65 


It  would  give_  me  great  pleasure  to  be  read  by  you,  but 
unfortunately  you  do  not  understand  my  language.  I  have 
produced  an  enormous  amount  this  summer.  I  have  written 
two  long  new  books  (of  twenty-four  and  twenty-eight 
sheets),  Impressions  of  Poland  and  Impression  of  Russia, 
besides  entirely  rewriting  one  of  my  oldest  books,  Esthetic 
Studies,  for  a  new  edition  and  correcting  the  proofs  of  all 
three  books  myself.  In  another  week  or  so  I  shall  have 
finished  this  work;  then  I  give  a  series  of  lectures,  writing 
at  the  same  time  another  series  in  French,  and  leave  for 
Russia  in  the  depth  of  winter  to  revive  there. 

That  is  the  plan  I  propose  for  my  winter  campaign. 
May  it  not  be  a  Russian  campaign  in  the  bad  sense. 

I  hope  you  will  continue  our  friendly  interest'  in  me. 

I  remain. 

Your  faithfully  devoted, 
George  Brande’s. 


18.  Nietzsche  to  Brandes.  ! 

Turin,  Oct.  20,  1888 

My  Dear  Sir, 

Once  more  your  letter  brought  me  a  pleasant  wind 
from  the  north;  it  is  in  fact  so  far  the  only  letter  that 
nuts  a  “good  face,”  or  any  face  at  all  on  my  attack  on 
Wagner.  For  people  do  not  write  to  me.  I  have  irreparably 
offended  even  my  nearest  and  dearest.  There  is,  for  in¬ 
stance,  mv  old  friend,  Baron  Seydlitz  of  Munich,  who  un¬ 
fortunately  happens  to  be  President  of  the  Munich  Wagner 
Societv:  my  still  older  friend,  Justizrath  Krug  of  Cologne, 
nresident  of  the  local  Wagner  Society;  mv  brother-in-law. 
Dr.  Bernhard  Forster  in  South  America,  the  not  unknown 
Anti-Semite,  one  of  the  keenest  contributors  to  the  Bay- 
reuther  Blatter — and  my  resnected  friend,  Malwida  von 
Meysenbug.  the  authore’ss  of  Memoirs  of  an  Idealist,  who 
continues  to  confuse  Wagner  with  Michel  Angelo  .  .  . 

On  the  other  side  I  have  been  given  to  understand 
that  I  must  be  on  my  guard  against  the  female  Waenerite: 
in  certain  cases  she  is  said  to  be  without  scruple.  Perhaps 
Bayreuth  will  defend  itself  in  the  German  Imperial  manner, 
by  the  prohibition  of  mv  writings — as  “dangerous  to  the 
public  morals”;  for  here  the  Emperor  is  a  party  to  the  ca^e. 
My  dictum,  “we  all  know  the  insesthetic  concept  of  the 
Christian  Junker,”  might  even  be  interpreted  as  lese-majeste. 

Your  intervention  on  behalf  of  Bizet’s  widow  gave  me 


66 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


great  pleasure.  Please  let  me  have  her  address;  also  that 
of  Prince  Urussov.  A  copy  has  been  sent  to  your  friend,  the 
Princess  Dmitrievna  Tenicheff.  When  my  next  book  is  pub¬ 
lished,  which  will  be  before  very  long  (the  title  is  now 
The  Twilight  of  the  Idols.  Or,  How  to  Philosophize  with  the 
Hammer),  I  should  much  like  to  send  a  copy  to  the  Swede 
you  introduce  to  me  in  such  laudatory  terms.  But  I  do  not 
know  where  he  lives.  This  book  is  my  philosophy  in  nuce — 
radical  to  the  point  of  criminality  .  .  . 

As  to  the  effect  of  Tristan,  I,  too,  could  tell  strange 
tales.  A  regular  dose  of  mental  anguish  seems  to  me  a 
splendid  tonic  before  a  Wagnerian  repast.  The  Reichs- 
gerichtsrath  Dr.  Wiener  of  Leipzig  gave  me  to  understand 
that  a  Carlsbad  cure  was  also  a  good  thing  ... 

Ah,  how’  industrious  you  are!  And  idiot  that  I  am,  not 
to  understand  Danish!  I  am  quite  willing  to  take  your  word 
for  it  that  one  can  “revive”  in  Russia  better  than  else¬ 
where;  I  count  any  Russian  book,  above  all  Dostoivsky 
(translated  into  French,  for  Heaven’s  'sake  not  German!!) 
among  my  greatest  sources  of  relief. 

Cordially  and,  with  good  reason,  gratefully. 

Yours, 

Nietzsche. 


19.  Brandes  to  Nietzsche. 

Copenhagen,  Nov.  16,  1888 

My  Dear  Sir, 

il  have  waited  in  vain  for  an  answer  from  Paris  to  learn 
the  address  of  Madam  Bizet.  On  the  other  h^nd,  I  now  have 
the  address  of  Prince  Urussov.  He  lives  in  Petersburg,  Ser- 
giev'skaia  79. 

My  three  books  are  now  out.  I  have  begun  my  lectures 
here. 

Curious  it  is  how  something  in  your  letter  and  in  your 
book  about  Dostoievsky  coincides  with  my  own  impressions 
of  him.  I  have  mentioned  you,  too,  in  my  work  on  Russia, 
when  dealing  with  Dostoievsky.  He  is  a  great  poet,  but  an 
abominable  creature,  quite  Christian  in  his  emotions  and 
at  the  same  time  quite  sadique.  His  whole  morality  is  what 
you  have  baptized  slave-morality. 

The  mad  Swede’s  name  is  August  Strindberg;  he  lives 
here.  His  address  is  Holte,  near  Copenhagen.  He  is  par¬ 
ticularly  fond  of  you,  because  he  thinks  he  finds  in  you  his 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


67 


own  hatred  for  women.  On  this  account  he  calls  you  “mod¬ 
ern”  (irony  of  fate).  On  reading  the  newspaper  reports  of 
my  spring  lectures,  he  said:  “It  is  an  astonishing  thing 
about  this  Nietzsche;  much  of  what  he  says  is  just  what  I 
might  have  written.”  His  drama.  Fere,  has  appeared  in 
French  with  a  preface  by  Zola. 

I  feel  mournful  whenever  I  think  of  Germany.  What  a 
development  is  now  going  on  there!  How  'sad  to  think  that 
to  all  appearance  one  will  never  in  one’s  lifetime  be  a 
historical  witness  of  the  smallest  good  thing. 

What  a  pity  that  so  learned  a  philologist  as  you  should 
not  understand  Danish.  I  am  doing  all  I  can  to  prevent  my 
books  on  Poland  and  Russia  being  translated,  so  that  I  may 
not  be  expelled,  or  at  least  refused  the  right  of  'speaking 
when  I  next  go  there. 

Hoping  that  these  lines  will  find  you  still  at  Turin 
or  will  be  forwarded  to  you,  I  am. 

Yours  very  sincerely, 

George  Brandes. 


20.  Nietzsche  to  Brandes. 


Torino,  via  Carlo  Alberto,  6,  HI. 

Nov.  20,  1888 


My  Dear  Sir, 


Forgive  me  for  answering  at  once.  Curious  things  are 
now  happening  in  my  life,  things  that  are  without  prece¬ 
dent.  First  the  day  before  yesterday;  now  again.  Ah,  if  you 
knew  what  I  had  just  written  when  your  letter  paid  me  its 
visit. 


With  a  cynicism  that  will  become  famous  in  the  world’s 
history,  I  have  now  related  myself.  The  book  is  called  Ecce 
Homo,  and  is  an  attack  on  the  Crucified  without  the  slight¬ 
est  reservation;  it  ends  in  thunders  and  lightnings  against 
everything  that  is  Christian  or  infected  with  Christianity, 
till  one  is  blinded  and  deafened.  I  am  in  fact  the  first  psy¬ 
chologist  of  Christianity  and,  as  an  old  artilleryman,  can 
bring  heavy  guns  into  action,  the  existence  of  which  no 
opponent  of  Christianity  has  even  suspected.  The  whole  is 
the  preJude  to  the  Transvaluation  of  ail  Values,  the  work 
^hat  lies  ready  before  me:  I  swear  to  you  that  in  two  years 
we  shall  have  the  whole  world  in  convulsions.  I  am  a  fate. 

Guess  who  came  off  \vorst  in  Ecce  Homo?  Messieurs 
the  Germans!  I  have  told  them  terrible  things  .  .  .  The 


68 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


Germans,  for  instance,  have  it  on  their  conscience  that 
they  deprived  the  last  great  epoch  of  history,  the  Renais¬ 
sance,  of  its  meaning — at  a  moment  when  the  Christian 
values,  the  decadence  values,  were  worsted,  when  they  were 
conquered  in  the  instincts  even  of  the  highest  ranks  of  the 
clergy  by  tlie  opposite  Instincts,  the  instincts  of  life.  To 
attack  the  Church — that  meant  to  re-establish  Christianity. 
(Cesare  Borgia  as  pope — that  would  have,  been  the  meaning 
of  the  Renaissance,  its  proper  symbol.) 

\You  must  not  be  angry  either,  to  find  yourself  brought 
forward  at  a  critical  passage  in  the  book — I  wrote  it  just 
now — where  I  stigmatize  the  conduct  of  my  German  friends 
towards  me,  their  absolute  leaving  me  in  the  lurch  as  re¬ 
gards  both  fame  and  philosophy.  Then  you  suddenly  appear, 
surrounded  by  a  halo  .  .  . 

I  believe  implicity  what  you  say  about  Dostoievsky;  I 
esteem  him,  on  the  other  hand,  as  the  most  valuable  psy¬ 
chological  material  I  know — I  am  grateful  to  him  in  an 
extraordinary  way,  however  antagonistic  he  may  be  to  my 
deepest  instincts.  Much  the  same  as  my  relation  to  Pascal, 
whom  I  almost  love,  since  he  has  taught  me  such  an  infinite 
amount;  the  only  logical  Christian. 

The  day  before  yesterday H  read,  with  delight  and  with 
a  feeling  of  being  thoroughly  at  home,  Les  marries,  by  Herr 
August  Strindberg.  My  sincerest  admiration,  which  is  only 
prejudiced  by  the  feeling  that  I  am  admiring  myself  a  little 
at  the  same  time. 

Turin  is  still  my  residence. 

Your 

Nietzsche,  now  a  monster. 

Where  may  I  send  you  the  Twilight  of  the  Idols?  If  you 
will  be  at  Copenhagen  another  fortnight,  no  answer  is 
necessary. 


21.  Brandes  to  Nietzsche. 


Copenhagen,  Nov.  23,  1888 

My  Dear  Sir, 

Your  letter  found  me  today  in  full  fever  of  work; 
I  am  lecturing  here  on  Goethe,  repeat  each  lecture  twice  and 
yet  people  wait  in  line  for  three  quarters  of  an  hour  in 
the  square  before  the  University  to  get  standing-room.  It 
amuses  me  to  study  the  greatest  of  the  great  before  so 
many.  I  must  stay  here  till  the  end  of  the  year. 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


69 


But  on  the  other  side  there  is  the  unfortunate  circum¬ 
stance  that — as  I  am  informed — one  of  my  old  books,  lately 
translated  into  Russia,  has  been  condemned  in  Russia  to 

be  publicly  burnt  as  “irreligious.” 

\ 

I  already  had  to  fear  expulsion  od  account  of  my  two 
last  works  on  Poland  and  Russia;  now  I  must  try  to  set  in 
motion  all  the  influence  I  can  command,  in  order  to  obtain 
permission  to  lecture* in  Russia  this  winter.  To  make  mat¬ 
ters  worse,  nearly  all  letters  to  and  from  me  are  now  con¬ 
fiscated.  There  is  great  anxiety  since  the  disaster  at 
Borki.  It  was  just  the  same  shortly  after  the  famous  at¬ 
tempts.  Every  letter  was  snapped  up. 

It  gives  me  lively  satisfaction  to  see  that  you  have 
again  got  through  'so  much.  Believe  me,  I  spread  your  prop¬ 
aganda  wherever  I  can.  So  late  as  last  week  I  earnestly 
recommended  Henrik  Ibsen  to  study  your  works.  With  him 
too  you  have  some  kinship,  even  if  it  is  a  very  distant  kin¬ 
ship.  Great  and  strong  and  unamiable,  but  yet  worthy  of 
love,  is  this  singular  person.  Strindberg  will  be  glad  to  hear 
of  your  appreciation.  I  do  not  know  the  French  translation 
you  mention ;  but  they  say  here  that  all  the  best  things  in 
GiftaS'  (Maries)  have  been  left  out,  especially  the  witty 
polemic  against  Ibsen.  But  read  his  drama  Pere;  there  is 
a  great  scene  in  it.  I  am  sure  he  would  gladly  send  it  you. 
But  I  'see  him  so  seldom;  he  is  so  shy  on  account  of  an 
extremely  unhappy  marriage.  Imagine  it,  he  abhors  his  wife 
intellectually  and  cannot  get  away  from  her  physically.  He 
is  a  monogamous  misogynist! 

It  'seems  curious  to  me  that  the  polemical  trait  is  still 
so  strong  in  you.  In  my  early  days  I  was  passionately  pole¬ 
mical;  now  I  can  only  expound;  silence  is  my  only  weapon  of 
offence.  I  should  as  soon  think  of  attacking  Christianity  as 
of  writing  a  pamphlet  against  werewolves,  I  mean  against 
the  belief  in  werewolves. 

But  I  see  we  understand  one  another.  I  too  love  Pascal. 
But  even  a’s  a  young  man  I  was  for  the  Jesuits  against 
Pascal  (in  the  Provinciales).  The  worldly-wise,  they  were 
right,  of  course;  he  did  not  understand  them;  but  they 
understood  him  and — what  a  master-stroke  of  impudence 
and  sagacity! — they  themselves  published  his  Provinciales 
with  notes.  The  best  edition  is  that  of  the  Jesuits. 

Luther  against  the  Pope,  there  we  have  the  'same  col¬ 
lision.  Victor  Hugo  in  the  preface  to  the  Feuilles  d’Automne 
has  this  fine  saying :  On  convoque  ia  diete  de  Worms  mais  on 
peint  la  chapelle  Sixtine.  II  y  a  Luther,  mais  il  y  a  Michel- 
Ange  .  .  .  et  remarquons  en  passant  que  Luther  est  dans 
les  vietlleries  qui  croulent  autour  de  nous  et  que  Michel- 
Ange  n’y  est  pas. 

Study  the  face  of  Dostoievsky:  half  a  Russian  peasant’s 


70 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


face,  half  a  criminal  physiognomy,  flat  nose,  little  piercing 
eyes  under  lids  quivering  with  nervousness,  this  lofty  and 
well-formed  forehead,  this  expressive  mouth  that  speaks  of 
torments  innumerahle,  of  abysmal  melancholy,  of  unhealthy 
appetites,  of  infinite  pity,  passionate  envy!  An  epileptic 
genius,  whose  exterior  alone  speaks  of  the  stream  of  gentle¬ 
ness  that  filled  his  spirit,  of  the  wave  of  acuteness  almost 
amounting  to  madness  that  mounted  to  his  head,  and  finally 
of  the  ambition,  the  immense  effort,  and  of  the  ill-will  that 
results  from  pettiness  of  soul. 

His  heroes  are  not  only  poor  and  pitiable  creatures, 
but  simple-minded  sensitive  ones,  noble  strumpets,  often 
victims  of  hallucination,  gifted  epileptics,  enthusiastic  can¬ 
didates  for  martyrdom — just  those  types  which  we  should 
suspect  in  the  apostles  and  disciples  of  the  early  days  of 
Christianity. 

Certainly  nothing  could  be  farther  removed  from  the 
Renaissance. 

I  am  excited  to  know  how  I  can  come  into  your  book. 

I  remain  your  faithfully  devoted 

George  Brandes. 

22.  Unstamped.  Without  further  address,  undated. 
Written  in  a  large  hand  on  a  piece  of  paper  (not 
note-paper)  ruled  in  pencil,  such,  as  children  use. 
Post-mark:  Turin,  January  4,  1889. 

To  the  friend  Georg 

When  once  you  had  discovered  me,  it  was  easy  enough 
to  find  me:  the  difficulty  now  is  to  get  rid  of  me  .  .  . 

The  Crucified. 

As  Herr  Max  Nordau  has  attempted  with  incredible  coarseness 
to  brand  Nietzsche’s  whole  life-Vv^ork  as  the  production  of  a  mad¬ 
man,  I  call  attention  to  the  fact  that  signs  of  powerful  exaltation 
only  appear  in  the  last  letter  but  one,  and  that  insanity  is  only 
evident  in  the  last  letter  of  all,  and  then  not  in  an  unqualified  form. 

But  at  the  close  of  the  year  1888  this  clear  and  masterly  mind 
began  to  be  deranged.  His  self-esteem,  which  had  always  been  very 
great,  acquired  a  morbid  character.  His  light  and  delicate  self¬ 
irony,  which  appears  not  unfrequently  in  the  letters  here  given, 
gave  place  to  constantly  recurring  outbursts  of  anger  with  the 
German  public’s  failure  to  appreciate  the  value  of  his  works.  It 
ill  became  a  man  of  Nietz’sche’s  intellect,  who  only  a  year  before 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE  ^ 


71 


(see  Letter  No.  2)  had  desired  a  small  number  of  intelligent  read¬ 
ers,  to  take  such  offence  at  the  indifference  of  the  mob.  He  now 
gave  expression  to  the  most  exalted  ideas  about  himself.  In  his 
last  book  but  one  he  had  said:  “I  have  given  the  Germans  the  pro- 
foundest  books  of  any  they  possess”;  in  his  last  he  wrote:  “I  have 
given  mankind  the  profoundest  book  it  possesses.”  At  the  same 
time  he  yielded  to  an  impulse  to  describe  the  fame  he  hoped  to 
attain  in  the  future  as  already  his.  As  the  reader  will  see,  he  had 
asked  me  to  furnish  him  with  the  addresses  of  persons  in  Paris 
and  Petersburg  who  might  be  able  to  make  his  name  known  in 
France  and  Russia.  I  chose  them  to  the  best  of  my  judgment.  But 
even  before  the  books  he  sent  had  reached  their  destinations,  Nietz¬ 
sche  wrote  in  a  German  review:  “And  thus  I  am  treated  in  Ger¬ 
many,  I  who  am  already  studied  in  Petersburg  and  Paris.”  That 
his  sense  of  propriety  was  beginning  to  be  deranged  was  already 
shown  when  sending  the  book  to  Princess  Tenicheff  (see  Letter 
No.  18).  This  lady  wrote  to  me  in  astonishment,  asking  what  kind 
of  a  strange  friend  I  had  recommended  to  her:  he  had  been  suf¬ 
ficiently  wanting  in  taste  to  give  the  sender’s  name  on  the  parcel  it¬ 
self  as  “The  Antichrist.”  Some  time  after  I  had  received  the  last 
deranged  and  touching  letter,  another  was  shown  me,  which  Nietz¬ 
sche  had  presumably  sent  the  same  day,  and  in  which  he  wrote  that 
he  intended  to  summon  a  meeting  of  sovereigns  in  Rome  to  have 
the  German  Emperor  shot  there;  this  was  signed  “Nietzsche-Csesar.” 
The  letter  to  me  was  signed  “The  Crucified.”  It  was  thus  evident 
that  this  great  mind  in  its  final  megalomania  had  oscillated  be¬ 
tween  attributing  to  itself  the  two  greatest  names  in  history,  so 
strongly  contrasted. 

It  was  exceedingly  sad  thus  to  witness  the  change  that  in  the 
course  of  a  few  weeks  reduced  a  genius  without  equal  to  a  poor 
helpless  creature,  in  whom  almost  the  last  gleam  of  mental  life 
was  extinguished  for  ever. 


Ill 


(August  1900) 


It  sometimes  happens  that  the  death  of  a  great  individual 
recalls  a  half-forgotten  name  to  our  memory,  and  we  then  disinter 
for  a  brief  moment  the  circums.tances,  events,  writings  or  achieve¬ 
ments  which  gave  that  name  its  renown.  Although  Friedrich  Nietz¬ 
sche  in  his  silent  madness  had  survived  himself  for  eleven  and  a 
half  years,  there  is  no  need  at  his  death  to  resuscitate  his  works 
or  his  fame.  For  during  those  very  years  in  which  he  lived  on  in 
the  night  of  insanity,  his  name  has  acquired  a  lustre  unsurpassed 
by  any  contemporary  reputation,  and  his  works  have  been  trans¬ 
lated  into  every  language  and  are  known  all  over  the  world. 

To  the  older  among  us,  who  have  followed  Nietzsche  from  the 
time  of  his  arduous  and  embittered  struggle  against  the  total  in¬ 
difference  of  the  reading  world,  this  prodigiously  rapid  attainment 
of  the  most  absolute  and  world-wide  renown  has  in  it  something 
in  the  highest  degree  surprising.  No  one  in  our  time  has  experienced 
anything  like  it.  In  the  course  of  five  or  six  years  Nietzsche’s  in¬ 
tellectual  tendency — now  more  or  less  understood,  now  misunder¬ 
stood,  now  involuntarily  caricatured — became  the  ruling  tendency 
of  a  great  part  of  the  literature  of  France,  Germany,  England,  Italy, 
Norway,  Sweden  and  Russia.  Note,  for  example,  the  influence  of 
this  spirit  on  Gabriele  d’Annunzio.  To  all  that  was  tragic  in  Nietz¬ 
sche’s  life  was  added  this — that,  after  thirsting  for  recognition  to 
the  point  of  morbidity,  he  attained  it  in  an  altogether  fantastic 
degree  when,  though  still  living,  he  was  shut  out  from  life.  But 
certain,  it  is  that  in  the  decade  1890-1900  no  one  engaged  and  im¬ 
pressed  the  minds  of  his  contemporaries  as  did  this  son  of  a  North 
German  clergyman,  who  tried  so  hard  to  be  taken  for  a  Polish 
nobleman,  and  whose  pride  it  was  that  his  works  were  conceived 
in  French,  though  written  in  German.  The  little  weaknesses  of  his 
character  were  forgotten  in  the  grandeur  of  the  style  he  imparted 
to  his  life  and  his  production. 

To  be  able  to  explain  Nietzsche’s  rapid  and  overwhelming 
triumph,  one  would  want  the  key  to  the  secret  of  the  psychological 
life  of  our  time.  He  bewitched  the  age,  though  he  seems  opposed 
to  all  its  instincts.  The  age  is  ultra-democratic;  he  won  its  favor 
as  an  aristocrat.  The  age  is  borne  on  a  rising  wave  of  religious  re¬ 
action  ;  he  conquered  with  his  pronounced  irreligion.  The  age  is 
struggling  with  social  questions  of  the  most  difficult  and  far-reach¬ 
ing  kind;  he,  the  thinker  of  the  age,  left  all  these  (fuestions  on  one 
'side  as  of  secondary  importance.  He  was  an  enemy  of  the  humani- 
tarianism  of  the  present  day  and  of  its  doctrine  of  happiness;  he 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


73 


had  a  passion  for  proving  how  much  that  is  base  and  mean  may 
conceal  itself  beneath  the  guise  of  pity,  love  of  one’s  neighbor  and 
unselfishness;  he  assailed  pessimism  and  scorned  optimism;  he  at- 
•tacked  the  ethics  of  the  philosophers  with  the  same  violence  as  the 
thinkers  of  the  eighteenth  century  had  attacked  the  dogmas  of  the 
theologians.  As  he  became  an  atheist  from  religion,  so  did  he  be¬ 
come  an  immoralist  from  morality.  Nevertheless  the  Voltairians  of 
the  age  could  not  claim  him,  since  he  was  a  mystic;  and  contemp¬ 
orary  anarchists  had  to  reject  him  as  an  enthusiast  for  rulers  and 
castes. 

For  ail  that,  he  must  in  some  hidden  way  have  been  in  accord 
with  much  that  is  fermenting  in  our  time,  otherwise  it  would  not 
have  adopted  him  as  it  has  done.  The  fact  of  having  known  Nietz¬ 
sche,  or  having  been  in  any  way  connected  with  him,  is  enough  at 
present  to  make  an  author  famous — more  famous,  sometimes,  than 
all  his  writings  have  made  him. 

What  Nietzsche  as  a  young  man  admired  more  than  anything 
else  in  Schopenhauer  and  Richard  Wagner  was  “the  indomitable 
energy  with  which  they  maintained  their  self-reliance  in  the  midst 
of  the  hue  and  cry  raised  against  them  by  the  whole  cultured 
world.”  He  made  this  self-reliance  his  own,  and  this  was  no  doubt 
the  first  thing  to  make  an  impression. 

In  the  next  place  the  artist  in  him  won  over  those  to  whom 
the  aphorisms  of  the  thinker  were  obscure.  With  all  his  mental 
acuteness  he  was  a  pronounced  lyricist.  In  the  autumn  of  1888  he 
wrote  of  Heine:  “How  he  handled  German!  One  day  it  will  be  said 
that  Heine  and  I  were  without  comparison  the  supreme  artists  of 
the  German  la,nguage.”  One  who  is  not  a  German  is  but  an  imper¬ 
fect  judge  of  Nietzsche’s  treatment  of  language:  but  in  our  day  all 
German  connoisseurs  are  agreed  in  calling  him  the  greatest  stylist 
of  German  prose. 

He  further  impressed  his  contemporaries  by  his  psychological 
profundity  and  abstruseness.  His  spiritual  life  has  its  abysses  and 
labyrinths.  Self-contemplation  provides  him  with  immense  material 
for  investigation.  And  he  is  not  content  with  self-contemplation. 
His  craving  for  knowledge  is  a  passion;  covetousness  he  calls  it: 
“In  this  soul  there  dwells  no  unselfishness;  on  the  contrary,  an 
ail-desiring  self  that  would  see  by  the  help  of  many  as  with  its  own 
eyes  and  grasp  as  with  its  own  hands;  this  soul  of  mine  would  even 
choose  to  bring  back  all  the  past  and  not  lose  anything  that  might 
belong  to  it.  What  a  flame  is  this  covetousness  of  mine!” 

The  equally  strong  development  of  his  lyrical  and  critical 
qualities  made  a  fascinating  combination.  But  it  was  the  cause  of 
those  reversals  of  his  personal  relations  which  deprive  his  career 
(in  much  the  same  way  as  Soren  Kierkegaard’s)  of  some  of  the 
dignity  it  might  have  possessed.  When  a  great  personality  crossed 
his  path  he  called  ail  his  lyricism  to  arms  and  with  clash  of  sword 
on  shield  hailed  the  person  in  question  as  a  demigod  or  a  god 
(Schopenhauer  and  Richard  Wagner).  When  later  on  he  discovered 
the  limitations  of  his  hero,  his  enthusiasm  was  apt  to  turn  to  hatred, 
and  this  hatred  found  vent  without  the  smallest  regard  to  his  former 
worship.  This  characteristic  is  offensively  conspicuous  in  Nietzsche’s 
behavior  to  Wagner.  But  who  knows  whether  this  very  lack  of  dig- 


/ 


74  FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 

nity  has  not  contributed  to  increase  the  number  of  Nietzsche’s  ad¬ 
mirers  in  an  age  that  is  somewhat  undignified  on  this  point! 

In  the  last  period  of  his  life  Nietzsche  appeared  rather  as  a 
prophet  than  as  a  thinker.  He  predicts  the  Superman.  And  he  makes, 
no  attempt  at  logical  proof,  but  proceeds  from  a  reliance  on  th2 
correctness  and  sureness  of  his  instinct,  convinced  that  he  himself 
represents  a  life-promoting  principle  and  his  opponents  one  hostile 
to  life.- 

To  him  the  object  of  existence  is  everywhere  the  production 
of  genius.  The  higher  man  in  our  day  is  like  a  vessel  in  which  the 
future  of  the  race  is  fermenting  in  an  impenetrable  way,  and  more 
than  one  of  these  vessels  is  burst  or  broken  in  the  process.  But  the 
human  race  is  not  ruined  by  the  failure  of  a  single  creature.  Man, 
as  we  know  him,  is  only  a  bridge,  a  transition  from  the  animal  to 
the  superman.  What  the  ape  is  in  relation  to  man,  a  laughing-stock 
or  a  thing  of  shame,  that  will  man  be  to  the  superman.  Hitherto 
every  species  has  produced  something  superior  to  itself.  Nietzsche 
teaches  that  man  too  will  and  must  do  the  same.  He  has  drawn  a 
conclusion  from  Darwinism  which  Darwin  himself  did  not  see. 

In  the  last  decade  of  the  nineteenth  century  Nietzsche  and 
Tolstoy  appeared  as  the  two  opposite  poles.  Nietzsche’.s  morality  is 
aristocratic  as  Tolstoy’s  is  popular,  individualistic  as  Tolstoy’s  is 
evangelical;  it  asserts  the  self-majesty  of  the  individual,  where 
Tolstoy’s  proclaims  the  necessity  of  self-sacrifice. 

In  the  same  decade  Nietzsche  and  Ibsen  were  sometimes  com¬ 
pared.  Ibsen,  like  Nietzsche,  was  a  combative  spirit  and  held  en¬ 
tirely  aloof  from  political  and  practical  life.  A  first  point  of  agree¬ 
ment  between  them  is  that  they  both  laid  stress  on  not  having  come 
of  small  folk.  Ibsen  made  known  to  me  in  a  letter  that  his  parents, 
both  on  the  father’s  and  the  mother’s  side,  belonged  to  the  most 
esteemed  families  of  their  day  in  Skien  in  Nomay,  related  to  all  the 
patrician  families  of  the  place  and  country.  Skien  is  no  world-city, 
and  the  aristocracy  of  Skien  is  quite  unknown  outside  it;  but  Ibsen 
wanted  to  make  it  clear  that  his  bitterness  against  the  upper  class 
in  Norway  was  in  no  wise  due  to  the  rancour  and  envy  of  the 
outsider. 

Nietzsche  always  made  it  known  to  his  acquaintances  that  he 
was  descended  f*rom  a  Polish  noble  family,  although  he  possessed  no 
pedigree.  His  correspondents  took  this  for  an  aristocratic  whim,  all 
the  more  because  the  name  given  out  by  him,  Niezky,  by  its  very 
spelling  betrayed  itself  as  not  Polish.  But  the  fact  is  otherwise. 
The  true  spelling  of  the  name  is  Nicki,  and  a  young  Polish  admirer 
of  Nietzsche,  Mr.  Bernard  Scharlitt,  has  succeeded  in  proving  Nietz¬ 
sche’s  descent  from  the  Nicki  family,  by  pointing  out  that  its  crest 
is  to  be  found  in  a  signet  which  for  centuries  has  been  an  heir¬ 
loom  in  the  family  of  Nietzsche.  Perhaps  not  quite  without  reason, 
Scharlitt  therefore  sees  in  Nietzsche’s  master-morality  and  his  whole 
aristocratizing  of  the  view  of  the  world  an  expression  of  the  szlachcic 
'spirit  inherited  from  Polish  ancestors. 

Nietzsche  and  Ibsen,  independently  of  each  other  but  like  Ren¬ 
an,  have  sifted  the  thought  of  breeding  moral  aristocrats.  It  is  the 
favorite  idea  of  Ibsen’s  Rosmer;  it  remains  Dr.  Stockmann’s.  Thus 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


75 


Nietzsche  speaks  of  the  higher  man  as  the  preliminary  aim  of  the 
race,  before  Zarathustra  announces  the  superman. 

They  meet  now  and  then  on  the  territory  of  psychology.  Ibsen 
speaks  in  The  Wild  Diick  of  the  necessity  of  falsehood  to  life.  Nietz¬ 
sche  loved  life  so  greatly  that  even  truth  appeared  to  him  of  worth 
only  in  the  case  of  its  acting  for  the  preservation  and  advancement 
of  life.  Falsehood  is  to  him  an  injurious  and  destructive  power  only 
in  so  far  as  it  is  life-constricting.  It  is  not  objectionable  where  it 
is  necessary  to  life. 

It  is  strange  that  a  thinker  who  abhorred  Jesuitism  as  Nietzsche 
did  should  arrive  at  this  standpoint,  which  leads  directly  to  Jesuit¬ 
ism.  Nietzsche  agrees  here  with  many  of  his  opponents. 

Ibsen  and  Nietzsche  were  both  solitary,  even  if  they  were  not 
at  all  careless  as  to  the  fate  of  their  works.  It  is  the  strongest  man, 
says  Dr.  Stockmann,  who  is  most  isolated.  Who  was  most  isolated, 
Ibsen  or  Nietzsche?  Ibsen,  who  held  back  from  every  alliance  with 
others,  but  exposed  his  work  to  the  masses  of  the  theatre-going  pub¬ 
lic,  or  Nietzsche,  who  stood  alone  as  a  thinker  but  as  a  man  con¬ 
tinually — even  if,  as  a  rule,  in  vain — spied  after  the  like-minded  and 
after  heralds,  and  whose  works,  in  the  time  of  his  conscious  life, 
remained  unread  by  the  great  public,  or  in  any  case  misunderstood. 

Decision  does  not  fall  lightly  to  one  who,  by  a  whim  of  fate, 
was  regarded  by  both  as  an  ally.  Still  more  difficult  is  the  decision 
as  to  which  of  them  has  had  the  deepest  effect  on  the  contemporary 
mind  and  v/hich  will  longest  retain  his  fame.  But  this  need  not  con¬ 
cern  us.  Wherever  Nietzsche’s  teaching  extends,  and  wherever  his 
great  and  rare  personality  is  mastered,  its  attraction  and  repulsion 
will  alike  be  powerful;  but  everywhere  it  will  contribute  to  the 
development  and  moulding  of  the  individual  personality. 


IV 


(1909) 


SINCE  the  publication  of  Nietzsche's  collected  works  was  com¬ 
pleted,  Frau  Forster-Nietzsche  has  allowed  the  Insel-Verlag  of 
Leipzig  to  issue,  at  a  high  price  and  for  subscribers  only,  F?:iedrich 
Nietzsche's  posthumous  work  Ecce  Homo,  which  has  been  lying  in 
manuscript  for  more  than  twenty  years,  and  which  she  herself  had 
formerly  excluded  from  his  works,  considering  that  the  German 
reading  public  was  not  ripe  to  receive  it  in  the  proper  way — which 
we  may  doubtless  interpret  as  a  fear  on  her  part  that  the  attitude 
of  the  book  towards  Germanism  and  Christianity  would  raise  a 
terrible  outcry. 

Now  that  Nietzsche  holds  undisputed  sway  over  German  minds 
and  exercises  an  immense  influence  in  the  rest  of  Europe  and  in 
America,  it  will  certainly  be  read  with  emotion  and  discreetly 
criticized. 

It  gives  us  an  autobiography,  written  during  Nietzsche’s  last 
productive  months,  almost  immediately  before  the  collapse  of  his 
powers,  between  October  15  and  November  4,  1888;  and  in  the 
course  of  this  autobiography  each  of  his  books  is  briefly  char¬ 
acterized. 

Here  as  elsewhere  Nietzsche’s  thoughts  are  centred  on  the 
primary  conceptions  of  ascent  and  descent,  growth  and  decay.  Bring¬ 
ing  himself  into  relation  with  them,  he  finds  that,  as  the  victim  of 
stubborn  illness  and  chronically  recurring  pain,  he  is  a  decadent; 
but  at  the  same  time,  as  one  who  in  his  inmost  self  is  unaffected 
by  his  illness,  nay,  whose  strength  and  fulness  of  life  even  increase 
during  its  attacks,  he  is  the  very  reverse  of  a  decadent,  a  being 
who  is  in  process  of  raising  himself  to  a  higher  form  of  life.  He 
once  more  emphasizes  the  fact  that  the  years  in  which  his  vitality 
was  lowest  were  just  those  in  which  he  threw  off  all  melancholy 
and  recovered  his  joy  in  life,  his  enthusiasm  for  life,  since  he  had 
a  keen  sense  that  a  sick  man  has  no  right  to  pessimism. 

He  begins  by  giving  us  plain,  matter-of-fact  information  about 
himself,  speaking  warmly  and  proudly  of  his  father.  The  latter  had 
been  tutor  to  four  princesses  of  Altenburg  before  he  was  appointed 
to  his  living.  Out  of  respect  for  Friedrich  Wilhelm  IV.  he  gave  his 
son  the  Hohenzollern  names  of  Friedrich  Wilhelm,  and  he  felt  the 
events  of  1848  very  keenly.  His  father  only  reached  the  age  of 
thirty-six,  and  Nietzsche  lost  him  when  he  was  himself  five  years 
old.  But  the  ascribes  to  paternal  heredity  his  ability  to  feel  at  home 
in  a  world  of  high  and  delicate  things  (in  einer  Welt  hoher  und 
zarter  Dinge).  For  all  that,  Nietzsche  does  not  forget  to  bring  in, 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


77 


here  as  elsewhere,  the  supposition  of  his  descent  from  Polish  noble¬ 
men  ;  but  he  did  not  know  this  for  a  fact,  and  it  was  only  establish¬ 
ed  by  Scharlitt’s  investigation  of  the  family  seal. 

He  describes  himself  as  what  we  should  call  a  winning  per¬ 
sonality.  He  has  “never  understood  the  art  of  arousing  ill-feeling 
against  himself.”  He  can  tame  every  bear;  he  even  makes  clowns 
behave  decently.  However  out  of  tune  the  instrument  “man”  may 
be,  he  can  coax  a  pleasing  tone  out  of  it.  During  his  years  of  teach¬ 
ing,  even  the  laziest  became  diligent  under  him.  Whatever  offence 
has  been  done  him,  has  not  been  the  result  of  ill-will.  The  pitiful 
have  wounded  him  more  deeply  than  the  malicious. 

Nor  has  he  given  vent  to  feelings  of  revenge  or  rancour.  His 
conflict  with  Christianity  is  only  one  instance  among  many  of  his 
antagonism  to  resentful  feelings.  It  is  an  altogether  different  matter 
that  his  very  nature  is  that  of  a  warrior.  But  he  confers  distinction 
on  the  objects  of  his  attacks,  and  he  has  never  waged  war  on  private 
individuals,  only  on  types;  thus  in  Strauss  he  saw  nothing  but  the 
Culture-Philistine. 

He  attributes  to  himself  an  extremely  vivid  and  sensitive  in¬ 
stinct  of  cleanliness.  At  the  first  contact  the  filth  lying  at  the  base 
of  another’s  nature  is  revealed  to  him.  The  unclean  are  therefore 
ill  at  ease  in  his  presence;  nor  does  the  sense  of  being  seen  through 
make  them  any  more  fragrant. 

And  with  true  psychology  he  adds  that  his  greatest  danger — 
he  means  to  his  spiritual  health  and  balance — is  loathing  of  man¬ 
kind. 

The  loathing  of  mankind  is  doubtless  the  best  modern  expres¬ 
sion  for  what  the  ancients  called  misanthropy.  No  one  knows  what 
it  is  till  he  has  experienced  it.  When  we  read,  for  instance,  in  our 
youth  of  Frederick  the  Great  that  in  his  later  years  he  was  possessed 
and  fettered  by  contempt  for  men,  this  appears  to  us  an  unfortun¬ 
ate  peculiarity  which  the  king  ought  to  have  overcome;  for  of  course 
he  must  have  seen  other  men  about  him  besides  those  who  flattered 
him  for  the  sake  of  advantage.  But  the  loathing  of  mankind  is  a 
force  that  surprises  and  overwhelms  one  fed  by  hundreds  of  springs 
concealed  in  subconsciousness.  One  only  detects  its  presence  after 
having  long  entertained  it  unawares. 

Nietzsche  cannot  be  said  to  have  overcome  it;  he  fled  from  it, 
took  refuge  in  solitude,  and  lived  outside  the  world  of  men,  alone 
in  the  mountains  among  cold,  fresh  springs. 

And  even  if  he  felt  no  loathing  for  individuals,  his  disgust 
with  men  found  a  collective  outlet,  since  he  entertained,  or  rather 
worked  up,  a  positive  horror  of  his  countrymen,  so  powerful  that  at 
last  it  breaks  out  in  everything  he  writes.  It  reminds  us  dimly  of 
Byron’s  dislike  of  Englishmen,  Stendhal’s  of  Frenchmen,  and  Heine’s 
of  Germans.  But  it  is  of  a  more  violent  character  than  Stendhal’s 
or  Heine’s,  and  it  has  a  pathos  and  contempt  of  its  own.  He  shows 
none  of  it  at  the  outset.  In  his  first  book,  The  Birth  of  Tragedy,  he 
is  no  less  partial  to  Germany  than  Heine  was  in  his  first,  romanti¬ 
cally  Teutonic  period.  But  Nietzsche’s  development  carried  him  with 
a  rush  away  from  Germanism,  and  in  his  last  book  of  his  the  word 
“German”  has  become  something  like  his  worst  term  of  abuse. 

He  believes  only  in  French  culture;  all  other  culture  is  a  mis- 


78 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


understanding.  It  makes  him  angry  to  see  those  Frenchmen  he 
values  most  infected  by  German  spirit.  Thus  Taine  is,  in  his  opinion, 
corrupted  by  Hegel’s  influence.  This  impression  is  right  in  so  far 
as  Hegel  deprived  Taine  of  some  of  the  essentially  French  element 
which  he  originally  possessed,  and  of  which  certain  of  his  admirers 
before  now  have  painfully  felt  the  loss.  But  he  overlooks  the  effect 
of  the  study  of  Hegel  in  promoting  at  the  same  time  what  one  might 
call  the  extension  of  Taine’s  intellectual  horizon.  And  Nietzsche  is 
satisfied  with  no  narrower  generalization  of  the  case  than  this: 
Wherever  Germany  extends,  she  ruins  culture. 

As  though  to  make  sure  of  wounding  German  national  pride, 
he  declares  that  Heinrich  Heine  (not  Goethe)  gave  him  the  highest 
idea  of  lyric  poetry,  and  that  as  concerns  Byron’s  Manfred,  he  has 
no  words,  only  a  look,  for  those  who  in  the  presence  of  this  work 
dare  to  utter  the  name  of  Faust.  The  Germans,  he  maintains  in  con¬ 
nection  with  Manfred,  are  incapable  of  any  conception  of  greatness. 
So  uncritical  has  be  become  that  he  puts  Manfred  above  Faust. 

In  his  deepest  instincts  Nietzsche  is  now,  as  he  asserts,  so 
foreign  to  everything  German,  that  the  mere  presence  of  a  German 
'‘retards  his  digestion.”  German ‘intellect  is  to  him  indigestion;  it 
can  never  be  finished  with  anything.  If  he  has  been  so  enthusiastic 
in  his  devotion  to  Wagner,  if  he  still  regards  his  intimate  relation¬ 
ship  with  Wagner  as  th4  most  profound  refreshment  of  his  life,  this 
was  because  in  Wagner  he  honored  the  foreigner,  because  in  him 
he  saw  the  incarnate  protest  against  all  German  virtues.  In  his  book. 
The  Case  of  Wagner,  he  had  already  'hinted  that  Richard  Wagner, 
the  .  glory  of  German  nationalism,  was  of  Jewish  descent,  since  his 
real  father  seems  to  have  been  the  step-father,  Geyer.  I  could  not 
have  survived  my  youth  without  Wagner,  he  says;  I  was  condemned 
to  the  society  of  Germans  and  had  to  take  a  counter-poison;  Wagner 
was  the  counter-poison. 

Here,  by  way  of  exception,  he  generalizes  his  feeling.  We  who 
were  children  in  the  ’fifties,  he  says,  necessarily  became  pessimists 
in  regard  to  the  concept  “German.”  We  cannot  be  anything  else  than 
revolutionaries.  And  he  explains  this  expression  thus:  We  can  as¬ 
sent  to  no  state  of  affairs  which  allows  the  canting  bigot  to  be  at 
the  top.  (Hoffding’s  protest  against  the  use  of  the  word  “radicalism’’ 
applied  to  Nietzsche,  in  Modeme  Filosofer,  is  thus  beside  the  mark.) 
Wagner  was  a  revolutionary;  he  fled  from  the  Germans.  And,  Nietz¬ 
sche  adds,  as  an  artist,  a  man  has  no  other  home  than  Paris — the 
city  which,  strangely  enough,  he  was  never  to  see.  He  ranks  Wag¬ 
ner  among  the  later  masters  of  French  romanticism — Delacroix, 
Berlioz,  Baudelaire — and  wisely  says  nothing  about  the  reception  of 
Wagnerian  opera  in  Paris  under  the  Empire. 

In  everything  Nietzsche  now  adopts  the  French  standpoint — 
that,  for  instance,  of  the  elderly  Voltaire  towards  Shakespeare.  He 
declares  here,  as  he  has  done  before,  that  his  artist’s  taste  defends 
Moliere,  Corneille  and  Racine,  not  without  bitterness  (nicht  ohne 
Ingrimm)  against  such  a  wild  (wustes)  genius  as  Shakespeare.^ 
Strangely  enough  he  repeats  here  his  estimate  of  Shakespeare’s 
Caesar  as  his  finest  creation,  weak  as  it  is:  “My  highest  formula 
for  Shakespeare  is  that  he  conceived  the  type  of  Caesar.”  It  must 
be  added  that  here  again  Nietzsche  assents  to  the  unhappy  delusion 


FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


79 


that  Shakespeare  never  wrote  the  works  that  bear  his  name.  Nietz¬ 
sche  is  “instinctively'"  certain  that  they  are  due  to  Bacon,  and,  ig¬ 
noring  repeated  demonstrations  of  the  impossibility  of  this  fatuous 
notion,  he  supports  his  conjecture  by  the  grotesque  assertion  that 
if  he  himself  had  christened  his  Zarathustra  by  a  name  not  his 
own — by  Wagner's,  for  instance — the  acumen  of  two  thousand  years 
would  not  have  sufficed  to  guess  /who  was  its  originator;  no  one 
would  have  believed  it  possible  that  the  author  of  Human  all-too- 
Uuman  had  conceived  the  visions  of  Zarathustra. 

He  allows  the  Germans  no  honor  as  philosophers:  Leibniz  and 
Kant  were  “the  two  greatest  clogs  upon  the  intellectual  integrity 
of  Europe."  Just  when  a  perfectly  scientific  attitude  of  mind  had 
been  attained,  they  managed  to  find  byways  back  to  “the  old  ideal." 
And  no  less  passionately  does  he  deny  to  the  Germans  all  honor  as 
musicians:  “A  German  cannot  know  what  music  is.  The  men  who 
pass  as  German  musicians  are  foreigners,  Slavs,  Croats,  Italians, 
Dutchmen  or  Jews.  I  am  Pole  enough  to  give  up  all  other  music 
for  Chopin — except  Wagner's  Siegfried-Idyll,  some  things  of  Liszt, 
and  the  Italians  Rossini  and  Pietro  Gasti"  (by  this  last  name  he 
appears  to  mean  his  favorite  disciple,  Koselitz,  who  wrote  under 
the  pseudonym  of  Peter  Gast). 

He  abhors  the  Germans  as  “idealists."  All  idealism  is  falsehood 
in  the  face  of  necessity,  He  finds  a  pernicious  idealism  in  Henrik 
Ibsen  too,  “that  typical  old  maid,"  as  well  as  in  others  whose  object 
it  is  to  poison  the  clean  conscience,  the  natural  spirit,  of  sexual 
love.  And  he  gives  us  a  clause  of  his  moral  code,  in  which,  under 
the  head  of  Vice,  he  combats  every  kind  of  opposition  to  Nature,  or 
if  fine  words  are  preferred,  every  kind  of  idealism.  The  clause  runs: 
“Preaching  of  chastity  is  a  public  incitement  to  unnatural  practices. 
All  depreciation  of  the  sexual  life,  all  sullying  of  it  with  the  word 
‘impure,"  is  a  crime  against  Life  itself — is  the  real  sin  against  the 
holy  spirit  of  Life." 

Finally  he  attacks  what  he  calls  the  “licentiousness"  of  the 
Germans  in  historical  matters.  German  historians,  he  declares,  have 
lost  all  eye  for  the  values  of  culture;  in  fact,  they  have  put  this 
power  of  vision  under  the  ban  of  the  Empire.  They  claim  that  a  man 
must  in  the  first  place  be  a  German,  must  belong  to  the  race.  If 
he  does,  he  is  in  a  position  to  determine  values  or  their  absence: 
the  Germans  are  thus  the  “moral  order  of  the  universe"  in  history; 
compared  wdth  the  power  of  the  Roman  Empire  they  are  the  champ¬ 
ions  of  liberty;  compared  with  the  eighteenth  century  they  are  the 
restorers  of  morality  and  of  the  Categorical  Imperative.  “History  is 
actually  written  on  Imperial  German  and  Antisemitic  lines —  and 
Herr  von  Treitschke  is  not  ashamed  of  himself." 

The  Germans  have  on  their  conscience  every  crime  against  cul¬ 
ture  committed  in  the  last  four  centuries.  As  Nietzsche  in  his  later 
years  was  never  tired  of  asserting,  they  deprived  the  Renaissance  of 
its  meaning,  they  wrecked  it  by  the  Reformation;  that  is,  by  Luther, 
an  impossible  monk  who,  owing  to  his  impossibility,  attacked  the 
Church  and  in  so  doing  restored  it.  The  Catholics  would  have  every 
reason  to  honour  Luther's  name. 

And  when,  upon  the  bridge  between  two  centuries  of  decadence, 


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FRIEDRICH  NIETZSCHE 


a  force  mapeure  of  genius  and  will  revealed  itself,  strong  enough  to 
weld  Europe  into  political  and  economic  unity,  the  Germans  finally, 
with  their  “Wars  of  Liberation,”  robbed  Europe  of  the  meaning  of 
Napoleon’s  existence,  a  prodigy  of  rtieaning.  Thus  they  have  upon 
their  conscience  all  that  followed,  nationalism,  the  nevrose  nationale 
from  which  Europe  is  suffering,  and  the  perpetuation  of  the  system 
of  little  states,  of  petty  politics. 

Last  of  all,  the  Germans  have  upon  their  conscience  their  atti¬ 
tude  to  himself,  their  indifference,  their  lack  of  recognition,  the 
silence  in  which  they  buried  his  life’s  work.  The  Germans  are  bad 
company.  And  although  his  autobiography  ends  with  a  poeni  in 
which  he  affects  a  scorn  of  fame,  “that  coin  in  which  the  whole 
world  pays,  but  which  he  receives  with  gloved  hands  and  tramples 
underfoot  with  loathing” — yet  his  failure  to  win  renown  in  Gernaany 
during  his  lifetime  contributed  powerfully  to  foster  his  antipathy. 

The  exaltation  that  marks  the  whole  tone  of  the  work,  the  unre¬ 
strained  self-esteem  which  animates  it  and  is  ominous  of  the  near 
approach  of  madness,  have  not  deprived  Ecce  Homo  of  its  char¬ 
acter  of  surpassing  greatness. 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS-URBANA  I  \ 


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